


Just A Little Longer

by ofvanity



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Drug Dealing, F/M, Gambling, Gore, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nightmares, Organized Crime, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:17:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofvanity/pseuds/ofvanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames looks into the distance and says, “Chinese whispers,” by way of explanation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Little Longer

It’s all Cobb’s fault.  
  
Arthur knows blaming Cobb is generally selfish and irresponsible, but he doesn’t care. This time it is actually Cobb’s fault. No matter what angle you study it from or who you talk to, it all ends up with Cobb. Cobb and his menacing squint and the soft firmness in his voice, the slow yet tantalizing rise in his tone. Fuck him.  
  
If Cobb had given him some breathing space or stopped acting like he needed a chaperon for the fucking thing--which, Arthur realizes now how much the job actually did sound like a getaway driver--Arthur could have gotten himself out of it. Probably. He should have listened when his mom said she would ship him off, though it’s hard to picture a threat stopping Dom. Let alone, Arthur. Now he’s fucking stuck here, but maybe he was kinda asking for it. She did say boarding school, and where is he now?  
  
Arthur brings the phone to his ear, waiting for someone to answer. Then he hears Dom’s groggy voice, “Hello?”  
  
“Just so you know,” Arthur says, “this is entirely your fault,” and hangs up.  
  
He doesn’t expect Cobb to call him back, he tosses his phone aside and fingers the knot of his tie, pulling it loose. He settles back into the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head. The room is empty and cold, despite the obvious settling of unfamiliar possessions. There are assorted chemistry and calculus books strewn around the room, with notebooks and a laptop in the far right corner. Above his roommate’s bed is the periodic table, obnoxiously large and looming, covered in sticky notes and red pen markings.  
  
Tomorrow is his first official day here, the Academy whose complicated name he’s already repressed, the first day of the second semester. He’s only been here by himself for a total of seventeen minutes and he’s already bored. He pushes his fingers through his hair a few times, massaging a tentatively growing headache but brushes off any fatigue.  
  
There’s unpacking to do.  
  
-  
  
Arthur doesn’t exactly meet Yusuf on the best of terms. After an entire day of searching for classes, getting shoved in hallways and being asked the same questions repeatedly, Arthur just really needs a smoke. The nicotine patch on the inside of his arm isn’t doing him any good, he needs the sting of smoke in his eyes to feel better. Plus, he skipped breakfast, and what the actual fuck, he wants waffles.  
  
Thirty seconds after entering his room, he claws off his jacket and opens the cuffs of his shirt to scratch off the patch and toss it in the nearest garbage can. Before he can cross the room to the window, he realizes he isn’t alone.  
  
Yusuf is in the corner, farthest from the bed, engulfed in white light from the computer screen. The clacking of Yusuf tapping away on the keys stops suddenly. Yusuf spins in the chair, but doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest by Arthur’s presence. They stare at each other for a moment, before Arthur says, “I’m Arthur. Mind if I smoke?”  
  
Yusuf raises his gaze, “Not at all, Arthur. Yusuf.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“My name,” he replies lamely. “My name is Yusuf. Since you asked.”  
  
Arthur curses under his breath, lighting the cigarette “Sorry, it’s been a long day. But don’t let me interrupt your work, I’ll be quiet and shit, you do what you have to.”  
  
Yusuf isn’t one to be told twice and returns to work, clacking away mindlessly. Arthur pretends not to see the slightly annoyed glint in his eyes.  
  
He smokes out of the open window, dangling the cigarette between his lips and checks his voicemail. There’s two from Cobb and one from his mother. Arthur deletes Cobb’s messages, listens to the message from his mother.  
  
“Arthur, honey, I know you probably hate me right now.” Arthur scoffed under his breath at the thought. “But you needed to learn your less-lesson,” the rest of which consists of fake crying. Suddenly frustrated with himself for pitying her caterwauling over a recorded message, he turns his phone off and tosses the cigarette out the window.  
  
Arthur glances at Yusuf and sees him in deep concentration, with eyebrows furrowed and keys clacking. He almost feels guilty for a second, having automatically assumed his roommate would be some know-it-all degenerate pretty boy with lips eager to wrap themselves around Arthur’s dick.    
  
Acting on an impulse, Arthur says, “Hey.”  
  
The keys don’t stop for a second.  “Hmm?” Yusuf hums.  
  
Arthur hesitates, having not thought it through, “Uh, I’m sorry if I seem like an asshole. I’m not. I just...”  
  
Yusuf’s face splits in a grin, “‘Salright, Arthur. I like you already.”  
  
Feeling better by fractions, Arthur throws himself into schoolwork.  
  
He forces himself to adjust to the new teachers and spends the week completing make up work. He eats a few meals with Yusuf in empty cafeterias when they both finish their work, but spends most of his time in the library, fingering the knot of his tie. He gets absorbed in a brutal law class and joins the debate team administered via the same instructor. He even gets paired with a competent debate partner, Robert Fischer.  For a week, he is sprinting to catch up. And when he does, he walks at a leisurely pace.  
  
On Friday night, he’s in the dorm room alone when Yusuf struts in. Yusuf tosses a stack of books on the desk and his bag on the floor, and sings, “Oh, Arthur!”  
  
Instead of replying with an escalating comment, Arthur raises an eyebrow in question. “What?”  
  
Yusuf grins widely, mischief in his eyes. “We’re going out tonight.”  
  
Arthur almost laughs, but instead deadpans, “Sure we are.”  
  
Yusuf laughs, “I’m serious. It’s the weekend.”  
  
“It’s Friday.”  
  
Yusuf tugs off his shirt and tosses it onto his bed, “Friday night, introduction to the weekend. Get changed. Actually, don’t. Just fix yourself up. The uniform looks good on a guy like you.”  
  
“I’m not going.”  
  
“I wasn’t asking.”  
  
“It’s late already--not that I’m going--where would we go and get back in time for curfew--not that I’m going.”  
  
Yusuf disappears into the closet, pulling on another shirt. He ducks his head out of the closet for a second to say simply, “Who said anything about coming back for curfew?”  
  
“Oh, that helps your case.”  
  
Yusuf reemerges, his pants entirely different, hopping around the room to change his socks. Arthur is still on the bed, with his American Law book in his lap and notebooks eagle-spread open all over the bed. “Look, Arthur. Let me teach you something else about this school.” Yusuf sits on the floor, tugging on different shoes.  
  
Arthur shifts the book on his lap and pulls it up to his chest. “Please do.”  
  
“Look. This, as you may or may not have noticed, is an all-boys school.”  
  
Arthur’s eyes widen with sarcasm. Yusuf chortles, standing off the floor, fully dressed. “I know that’s surprising. But what makes this hell hole bearable is the lonely fact that across the lake, is the all-girls sister school.”  
  
Unsurprised by the cliché, Arthur asks, “Your school has a lake?”  
  
“Our. Our school has a lake.” Yusuf corrects. “Yes, there is a lake and a school full of young brimming women with tight, eager--” Yusuf’s face splits in that shit-eating grin Arthur suspects he should fear, “well, I’ll let you find out.”  
  
Arthur raises an eyebrow, “The lesson here is...?”  
  
Yusuf walks forward and takes the book out of Arthur’s lap. “In order for one to survive the hellish Academy, one must learn to have fun. Once a week. With condoms.”  
  
Arthur narrows his eyes, but before he can say anything, Yusuf concludes, “It’s not like you have an option anyway.”  
  
-  
  
Leaving their room, Arthur follows Yusuf soundlessly through winding hallways. They go out the back doors, leading to the game grounds and cross the football field, the soccer field and the tennis courts before Arthur starts to wonder where exactly Yusuf is taking him. It’s when Arthur catches sight of woods and greenery that he voices his concern, “Yusuf, where are--”  
  
“Let me do this, Arthur,” he says dismissively.  
  
Arthur does.  
  
They pass through the woods and walk for another five minutes before Arthur realizes their destination. A small cabin is located at the edge a lake. A few feet away is the pier, where a couple of boats are tied to the end of the pier. Across the lake, barely visible in the dark is another set of woods. Woods, Arthur presumes, that lead through to the Academy for Wayward Ladies or some bullshit of the like.  
  
At the front door of the cabin, Yusuf raps his knuckles against the wood loudly. A compartment slides open and they are met with dark eyes. “Password.”  
  
Yusuf begins calculating a equation under his breath, murmuring numbers and additions. Arthur barely catches them and he assumes he isn’t meant to, either. “Zero.”  
  
The compartment slams shut abruptly. Yusuf rolls his eyes, “You’ll have to excuse him, he gets so insufferable when he starts in with the melodrama.”  
  
The door swings open as Arthur asks, “Who?”  
  
“Yes, Yusuf, who?”  
  
Arthur turns to see a small brunette girl has answered the door. She’s got long brown hair tied high on her head and a bright pink mouth, parted in a smile, but her eyes are dark and fathomless. Yusuf apologizes, quirking his lips in return, “Sorry. I thought it was Eames.”  
  
“Gee,” she deadpans, “Thanks.” He rolls his eyes and then wraps his arms around her, lifting her into a squealing hug.  
  
Arthur sidesteps them, letting himself in. The cabin is empty except for a table pushed to the corner of the room with a few cards lying haphazardly on it. Setting down the girl, Yusuf follows Arthur’s line of sight, “Oh, ignore that. That’s nothing.”  
  
Yusuf tugs on his sleeve and introduces him to the small girl, “This is Ariadne. Ari, this is Arthur. He’s new, just started this week. Also, he’s in.”  
  
Arthur smiles and shakes her hand, “Hi.”  
  
She smiles in return but raises an eyebrow at Yusuf. “Hello, Arthur. It’s nice to meet you. I’m assuming that you haven’t met his brother?”  
  
“No, actually,” Arthur raises an eyebrow, “he never mentioned a brother.”  
  
Yusuf shrugs, “They call us brothers but we’re not actually brothers. Christ, could you imagine that childhood? No, there are just those who know us as the Caravaggio brothers.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Ariadne slips her arm over Yusuf’s shoulder, smirking malevolently, “I’m sure you’ll realize it soon. Come on, let’s go downstairs.”  
  
She leads Arthur and Yusuf to the edge of the room and pulls up a floorboard by a small nick. Once the first is gone, she grabs another and lifts easily. Much to Arthur’s surprise, multiple boards lift out of the ground at once, attached to each other, and leave a wide gap with a set of stairs visible underneath. She steps in first, followed by Arthur and Yusuf last. There is only a few stairs and then Arthur stops, taking in the room.  
  
At the far wall, there are two tables crowded with people . Along the opposite wall, there is people standing and talking. A coffee table littered with ash trays and cigarette butts in the center.  The walls are painted a subdued brown, with lamps at several ends of the room reflecting soft light. From some unknown corner, soft jazz plays for the people dancing off to one side.  
  
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Yusuf, who appears next to him, mildly impressed.  
  
Yusuf grins, “I thought you might like it.”  
  
Ariadne nods to Yusuf and then heads toward the group of people smoking next to the dance floor.  Yusuf leads him to the generally unpopulated tables to their left. Set on a white tablecloth, is an arrangement of food and drinks. At the edge closest to him, Arthur sees a row of condom packages. A piece of paper lays the top of the row, reading, “fuck responsibly, you twats”  
  
Next to the condoms are rows of cups. Some are blue and some are red, with a multitude of sharpies surrounding them. Arthur grabs a red cup while Yusuf chats with someone else. He drinks and from it and is met with decent vodka, albeit cheap tasting. Arthur shrugs and drinks from it again. When Yusuf turns his attention to him again, he says, “Let me show you the real attraction.”  
  
Arthur follows as he is led to the opposite side of the room, to what Arthur now recognizes as a game of craps already in order. Behind the house side, there is a man dressed in a tuxedo. The black jacket and bow tie don’t hide his wide build in the slightest, which Arthur supposes is the point for those tempted to cheat.  
  
Arthur eyes the table warily, “Yusuf.”  
  
Yusuf, sound disinterested, hums a question. “Hmm?”  
  
Arthur drinks from the cup again, warming up to the taste. “Isn’t this illegal? Very illegal and worthy of expulsion?”  
  
“If you really cared about the legality of things, darling,” someone behind him drawls, “you wouldn’t be holding that cup.”  
  
Arthur turns his back to the table and meets bright gray eyes under low slung eyelashes. Arthur raises the cup to his lips and drinks in defiance. “I never said I had a problem with it. I was inquiring.”  
  
The boy swaggers closer, holding a blue cup in his hand. Wrapped around is smooth writing that reads _Eames_. Arthur can’t help following his chiseled jaw, the hollowed cheeks and high cheekbones. “Well your inflection was implying something else.”  
  
Arthur cuts back without thinking, “I imply nothing. You infer.”  
  
Arthur watches Eames’ eyes glint mischievously, as if Arthur has just said something brilliant.  
  
Yusuf turns and throws an arm around Arthur’s shoulder. “That’s enough, boys,” he glances down at the drink in Arthur’s hand. “Oh, fuck. Arthur.”  
  
Without taking his eyes off Eames, who seems to be under the impression that they are competing in a staring competition, Arthur grunts at Yusuf, “What?”  
  
Yusuf lifts the cup out of his hand lightly. “Please tell me you’ve only just picked this up.”  
  
Eames raises an eyebrow, smug and amused. Arthur can feel his teeth gritting inside his jaw. There is something about Eames that sets him on edge. “I’ve been drinking from it.”  
  
Eames takes his eyes off Arthur now, seemingly satisfied, and looks straight at Yusuf. Then laughs in rough chuckles from deep in his chest. “That’s very sloppy of you, Yusuf.”  
  
Arthur can’t help but feeling victorious, even though he knows it’s childish, that Eames looked away first. Still, his attention is diverted by Yusuf, who says soberly, “I’m so sorry, I thought I would get back to you in time to tell you, but I forgot. I’m sorry.”  
  
Arthur’s brow wrinkles, he’s not in the particular mood for this. “What is it?”  
  
“ _It_ is GHB,” Eames announces. “The red cups have GHB. The blue just have alcohol.”  
  
Arthur turns his eyes on Yusuf, now fierce and demanding. “What the fuck.”  
  
Yusuf grimaces, “Terribly sorry. I didn’t think you would get to it before me.”  
  
Arthur narrows his eyes, “I’ve been drinking GHB and vodka,” and it sounds more like a threat than anything else.  
  
Yusuf pulls Arthur back to look at him. “Okay, listen to me. You’ve got about half an hour before you start feeling the effects. And for that I’m terribly sorry.”  
  
Arthur’s teeth grind inside his jaw, clamped shut. “And what happens when I start to feel the effects?”  
  
-  
  
Even after Yusuf had explained the effects to him, Arthur was caught off guard. The world bent around the edges of his vision until the room pulsed delightfully. His body felt warm and loose, sated and time was passing faster, lights glowing brighter.  
  
He wasn’t lost, he was just a little caught up. The jazz was soft and thick in his head, melting velvet coils in the depths of his body. Seamless and languid, he wandered to the table and drank sweet liquor out of a blue cup while Yusuf was off somewhere. He thought no one else was looking. Not that it would have stopped him, Arthur felt good and there was something deep in bones building.  
  
He’s watching people dance when he notices a girl approaching him. Her body is encased in a black dress, cut low in the neck, clinging to her every curve and elongating her neck. Her thighs are lean and long, teasing at the cut of the dress and they move towards him effortlessly. The crowd of dancers parts for her like she is their queen.    
  
Arthur just barely resists the urge to bow in front of her when she stands before him. He’s taller than her but just by a few inches. She takes his hand wordlessly and then picks the drink out of it and sets it on the table behind him. Her fingers are nimble and all he can do is watch, petrified.  
  
“Mallorie,” is all she offers.  
  
His mind comes back to him, “Arthur.”  
  
Her lips flicker half a smile, “Let’s dance.”  
  
Arthur flinches a little, “I don’t dance.”  
  
She laughs now; shaking her head, “I wasn’t asking,” then pulls him onto the floor without hesitation.  
  
Arthur considers resisting for an instant but the warmth of her hand is too compelling and the cut of her dress is so promising. Instead, he does his best to remember the lessons Cobb gave him when they were fourteen and high.  
  
The song itself is soft like raindrops, a low piano and trumpet playing a candied rhythm.  Mallorie wraps herself around Arthur, all drastic lines and long curves. He closes his palms on her hips at first, but when they’ve been on for a few seconds, she pulls them around her waist. They move in slow, calculated steps only picking up pace as the tempo does. He spins her slender wrists; the pulse point is calm and soothing. Her hips move, gently bending to his lead.  
  
As the tempo decreases again, she brings herself back to their center, staring into his eyes. Arthur feels the rush of blood to his brain and is dizzy for a moment. Stroking the blades of his shoulders she speaks again. Her accent reminds Arthur of crystallized sugar, crushed against his tongue in the winter, “Do you know why I chose you to dance?”  
  
Arthur shrugs, “My rugged good looks?”  
  
She huffs a laugh, “Actually, you’re a bit pretty for my taste.”  
  
Arthur isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t. But it shows on his face. She smiles, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear, touching his cheekbones like he is delicate and beautiful, “Don’t worry. You’re just not my type. But you know whose type you are?”  
  
Arthur says, “Should I?”  
  
Her grin turns wicked and she responds, “Dip me.”  
  
Arthur follows her command, holding her weight for long seconds. She ghosts her fingertips over the hollows of cheekbones, her leg wrapped effortlessly around his own and he can feel the slide of her heel against the inseam of his trousers. Her voice is quiet in his ear, so not even the nearby eavesdropping couple can hear, “If he thinks that I’m working you, he’ll try to put a stop to it.”  
  
Before he can respond, she’s pulling herself up in a swirl of curly hair. When she presses against his chest again, her hands are cold at the back of his neck. “It worked,” she breathes hot in his ear and blood rushes through his body as he shudders. Blood rushing black heat into his core and the edges curl in further like burnt paper, his body restless.  
  
“What worked?” he asks, thrilled to hear the crunch of melting sugar cubes.  
  
“Eames is going to come over here and ask to cut in. He hates it when I dance with other boys but I’ve danced all night and not once with him. I believe this time, it’s isn’t me he wants to dance with.”  
  
Arthur’s eyebrows twitch but he has no time to answer when before he feels a firm hand on his shoulder, stroking the blade in preamble. Arthur turns and is mildly surprised to see Eames. Eames’ voice is deep and disorienting. His accent is more like the revving of a motorcycle as it cuts through abandoned super highways, echoing off concrete bridges and burning rubber in its wake. “Mind if I cut in?”  
  
Arthur almost answers but then realizes Eames isn’t asking him. Mal smiles graciously and parts with a wink in Arthur’s direction. Eames’ hands are calloused and hot when they take Mal’s place.  
  
The song ends but another starts in. The piano is softer now, a subtle accent to the low drawl of some crooner. Arthur’s fingers clench around Eames’ hand as he allows himself to be lead. It’s different dancing with Eames, but somehow calmer, smoother. Arthur licks his lips, for all of a sudden, his mouth is dry.  
  
Moving in basic steps, Arthur can feel the heat of Eames’ hand on the small of his back--through his shirt. Pushed together, Arthur goes out of his way not to meet Eames’ eyes. Dancing with Mal, a pretty, charming girl is one thing. But the firm weight of Eames’ eyes will unravel him.  
  
“I’m Eames, by the way.”  
  
“I remember,” Arthur offers.  
  
“Really? I don’t think I caught your name.”  
  
“It’s Daniel,” Arthur can’t help the sarcastic compulsion.  
  
“Is it?” Eames eyes him warily.  
  
Arthur nods curtly, twisting his hand in Eames’ slightly. His heart is beating a little faster than usual and there is a cold sweat, forming at his fingertips. Arthur doubts it’s the drug.  
  
Eames doesn’t miss a beat, “You’re Arthur, aren’t you?”  
  
“Aren’t you a sharp one,” Arthur deadpans.  
  
“As a razor.” Eames replies nonchalantly. “Though I hear you’re quite the sharp object yourself.”  
  
Arthur stiffens in his shoulders just a bit, “Careful not to cut yourself.”  
  
“Concerned for my well being?” Eames teases.  
  
Arthur shrugs, ”Bloodstains are annoying.”  
  
Eames laughs at this, like it amuses him. It’s a low, dry drawl that reverberates in Arthur’s chest. Arthur doesn’t reply but moves against Eames’ body, he can feel all the heat crawling through his body. A thought strikes him, “Why Caravaggio?”  
  
Eames is taken back by the temerity of the question, and his grin falters. “I hardly see how it concerns you.”  
  
Arthur’s palm twitches from where it’s pressed against Eames’ but he doesn’t pull away. Eames’ fingers are calloused and rough but they touch Arthur’s skin in light, tentative ways. The buttons of their shirts meet at the bottom of their bellies and clink like toasting champagne glasses.  Arthur chews his lip, looking anywhere that wasn’t Eames, “Fair enough.”  
  
Eames presses his hand deeper into Arthur’s back, demanding his attention. It works, Arthur turns his gaze back to Eames’ dim gray eyes. In them, he sees a peace offering. The comment wasn’t meant to sound ill-mannered, but was only for the sake of privacy. When he realizes this, Arthur releases his lip, the swollen flesh drowning in a red flush. Eames glances at his mouth but offers no other signs of interest.  
  
Arthur can feel the expanse of Eames’ lungs as he breathes but can’t seem to remember the courtesy of personal space. With Eames’ body pressed against him, hips moving in meaninglessly fluent steps. For a moment, all he wants to do is shed his clothes and press his mouth to open new spaces and grind low and deep between Eames and between his legs, sweat and breath in sync and--  
  
Before he can think about what it means to ask this, Arthur says, “You want to get some fresh air?”  
  
Eames slows his movement and his expression changes, something Arthur can’t really identify but deducts as some variation of surprise. Eames nods though and Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice. Blood pushes hot through his veins, his body itching impatiently. Blood vibrates through his ears but all he can feel is the heat of Eames’ breath on the back of his neck and the rush of perversion in his chest when they’re finally alone.  
  
-  
  
The sky is dark outside, endless horizon and black water crinkling gently to meet each other. Eames’ eyes are silver and glacial, while Arthur’s are dark, pupils blown wide.  They walk to the edge of the pier, Eames’ hand resting on Arthur’s back.  
  
At the edge of the pier, Eames grabs onto Arthur’s elbow to keep him from toppling over the edge. Arthur feels his shirt melt like paper from the onset fever. He’s too lightheaded to bother, though and the air out here smells brilliant, sharply cut and fresh.  
  
“Do they call you brothers because you run an illegal nightclub together? Or because you run all drugs at this school?”Arthur asks, lazily glancing over his shoulder. “Or do they call you Caravaggio because of _Judith Beheading Holofernes_?”  
  
Eames laughs again, deep but quiet. “Yusuf said you were clever. I should have listened.”  
  
Arthur tugs his collar, feeling restricted by the hesitation on Eames’ face to continue. But he does, “We don’t run all the drugs, we do have competitors. We do run the best of them, though. Drugs, that is. Yusuf has supreme talent.”  
  
“That much I can tell,” Arthur informs, “What about Caravaggio? Behead anyone lately, have you?”  
  
Eames looks into the distance and says, “Chinese whispers,” by way of explanation.  
  
Arthur tips his head back in laughter, exposing his neck. There is a delicious leisure crawling between his muscles. It smells like the air and tastes sweet in his lungs, and Arthur thinks he’d like nothing more than a warm bed right now, with the expanse of his chest resting against Eames’ heat, Eames’ body. Arousal is spiking his belly and Arthur cannot be bothered to contain it. Eames takes his moment off guard to pull him farther away from the edge of the pier.  
  
Arthur turns to face him, challenging, “Now who’s concerned?”  
  
“It is in my experience that people drowning is bad for business.”  
  
“You wouldn’t jump after me if I fell?” Arthur feigns offense.  
  
“I would. Hence the people dying. As in multiples.” Eames says helpfully.  
  
Arthur raises a skeptical eyebrow, “You would really jump in after a stranger?”  
  
“You don’t feel so strange to me.”  
  
Arthur’s blood ripples through his fingers as he laughs, “Excuse me while I swoon.” He pushes a hand through his hair,  “Mind if I smoke?”  
  
Eames grins, amused, “By all means.”  
  
Arthur can hear it in his voice, the same depth that’s tugging at his thirsty stomach. He fingers the pack and lights up with Eames following the flex of his fingers. Arthur inhales and blows it away, in the direction of the lake. Eames takes it from his hand and takes a slow drag. It’s long and erotic through his plush lips.  
  
Before he can’t stop himself, Arthur says, “You have serious dick-sucking lips.”  
  
Eames grins widely again, lecherously even. A smug infatuated look crosses his face, “Care to test that theory?”  
  
Arthur bites against his lip--blood trembling against his agitated veins, he can’t take this much longer. Eames turns into his personal space, a hand spreading warmth on his left flank.  When he speaks it’s quiet and intimate against his neck, “Something tells me that this is all the GHB talking but I can’t decide whether or not you took enough to know what you’re doing.”  
  
“How noble of you,” Arthur purrs, moving his right hand to slide the buttons of Eames’ jacket open.  
  
Eames presses his forehead against Arthur’s, laughing. “That’s hardly helpful to my decision.”  
  
Arthur slides his hands against Eames’ torso, feeling taut muscle through his shirt, twitching under his palm. “I’m just trying to lend a hand.” He brushes his nose against Eames’ cheek, tilting to reach the plush of his lips. “And perhaps test my theory. I’ll need multiple sets of data, y’know.”  
  
Eames pulls away all of a sudden and cold air rushes at Arthur all over. “That’s quite enough.”  
  
Arthur grits his teeth, swaying a little without support. Eames blows smoke away, starring over the dark horizon.  
  
The moment is gone now. Arthur steadies himself, pushing his cold fingers through his throbbing scalp. He’s thoroughly annoyed now, and suddenly, nauseous from the smell of the lake. “Yusuf said you were insufferable. I should have listened.”  
  
Eames whips around, the cigarette dangling from his lips,. “He said I’m insufferable?”  
  
Arthur nods, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
Eames throws the smoke into the lake and is on Arthur at once, grabbing the back of his neck fiercely. Eames pulls Arthur against him, his free hand dangerously low on Arthur’s back. Eames breathes over his mouth with cigarette smoke, speaking through his hissing teeth, “He’s fucking wrong. Ask me what I really am.”  
  
Arthur is not amused. Arthur’s dick, however. “What are you?”  
  
Eames loosens his grip to caress, but Arthur doesn’t move away. “I’m irrevocable. So you’d better make sure you’re sober enough to know what you’re doing when I pick you up for our date Friday.”  
  
-  
  
Arthur wakes up tangled in the sloppy heat of his bed. The sheets were a mess, wrapped around his hand and bent awkwardly underneath his belly. His shirt is gone, but he’s still wearing the same pants he was yesterday, only now they’re a wrinkled mess. His face is lined with pillow case and when he shifts, he can feel the worst case of morning wood he’s had in a long time. He lays there for a while, willing the arousal away but it’s nothing particularly surprising when he can’t.  
  
A glance around the room and Arthur figures Yusuf will be at breakfast or lunch or whatever meal is appropriate for the time of day. He stumbles to the bathroom on wobbly legs, hardly faltering to grab a towel off the dresser. He turns the shower as hot as he can and lets the room fill with steam. In the mirror, all he sees is pasty white skin and dark eyes. The water is soothing,  beating against his skin in controlled waves. It rolls down his skin, roaring in his ears. It’s not a particularly bad morning, just fuzzy.  
  
Which is why he nearly bashes his forehead into the tile pattern when the memories of last night rush back.  
  
He scrambles to get rid of the hard on, turning the hot water off all together and rushing pelts of cold water down his back. Arthur shivers into the water, it makes him gnash his teeth in self-conviction. When he’s done showering, he wraps the towel around his waist and hunts around the room for clean clothes.  
  
Once he’s dressed, Arthur lets himself think about the night before. And how wonder how he’d gotten back to the room. And why he woke up half naked. When he can produce no explanations--none that he likes, at least-- he gives up.  
  
He’s opens his laptop and tries to focus on school work. He has a report due Monday on _Roe vs. Wade_ and needs to finish his part of the work before meeting with his partner, Robert Fischer. His efforts are quickly discarded, however, when Yusuf enters the room, holding a tray loaded with a variety of breakfast foods. Arthur watches him set it down next to him and grin sheepishly. “You didn’t have to bring this. You could have just said sorry for accidentally drugging me.”  
  
“I was just covering all my bases. I couldn’t exactly know how you were gonna react, so.”  
  
Arthur nods, turning to the food. He pops a strawberry in his mouth and talks through it, “So,” he begins, “why didn’t you tell me you were a drug runner?”  
  
Yusuf falls back on his bed and pulls his book-bag up, “Probably because I’m not...”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes, drinking some orange juice, “I’m sorry, allow me to be specific. Why didn’t you tell me that you are a drug manufacturer?”  
  
Rummaging through his bag, Yusuf’s laughter settles into a grin, “It’s not that big a deal, Arthur. Honestly, it’s just something that worked itself into my life.”  
  
Arthur scoffs through a mouth full of food, “How does that just work itself out?”  
  
“It was a temp thing at first but then it became about refining my skills and experimenting, I vary my compounds and equipment, it can actually be kind of fun. It keeps my wallet pretty thick and Eames is a good guy, we’ve known each other for years, so we just sort of fell into it together.”  
  
Arthur nods, chewing pancake. “So Eames got you into it?”  
  
Yusuf laughs now, with belated amusement. “What the fuck, Arthur.”  
  
Arthur feigns ignorance, “What?”  
  
“Come the fuck on, man. I know you want to know about him, I saw you two mind-fucking on the dance floor. Just, if you want to know, at least have the nerve to ask.”  
  
Arthur chews the inside of his cheek, considering whether or not he should lie. But, really? He shares a room with Yusuf and if he can’t tell him, who can he tell? “Alright. Can you tell me about Eames?”  
  
Yusuf opens a history book and thumbs through it, “No.”  
  
“But you just said--”  
  
“No, I said you should have the nerve to ask. I didn’t say ask me. You should ask Eames, on your date Friday.”  
  
Arthur groans, scrubbing his face with his hands, “Fuck, I hoped I dreamt that part.”  
  
Yusuf snorts, “Yeah, you dreamt up that quality sexual tension. I wish my product was that good. How was it by the way?”  
  
“How is sexual tension usually?”  
  
“Not what I was talking about, man.”  
  
“Oh.” Arthur flushes a little, “It was good, actually. I mean, I was dizzy and lightweight. It was pretty relaxing and I only started getting a little bit anxious towards the end.”  
  
Yusuf flips pages in the book, “Hmm. How was the horniness? Excessive?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head, “No, it was slight, it felt completely natural. I had the worst morning wood, though.”  
  
Yusuf’s eye flick up, “Really? That’s odd. I’ll look into it. Though, I suppose that might just be you.”  
  
Arthur turns back to the food, polishing off the strawberries and trying to sound nonchalant. “So who told you about the date?”  
  
Yusuf waits a few beats, reading off the page in front of him and muttering about the switch to Italian vernacular during the Dark Ages. “I... uh, Eames told me... and Mal... last night, right before we left. Can you pass me my laptop, it’s on the dresser.”  
  
Arthur stands and does so, then flopping on the bed next to Yusuf, taking the book and passing him the laptop. “So... he just made some proclamation like I’m some goddamn conquest.”  
  
“Ugh, you’re such a chick. Go talk to him if you really want to know what the deal is. He’s at the cabin now.”  
  
“Oh yeah, what’s the deal with that? Does he live there or--?”  
  
“What did I just say?”  
  
\--  
  
After breakfast, Arthur combed his hair back, pulled on a change of clothes and headed out. It was a cloudy morning and there was a light chill, hardly enough to make him regret not wearing a jacket. At the edge of the woods, he forced down genuine anxiety, reminding himself he was there for a reason and this business needed to be handled. Arthur trudged up to the cabin rapped his knuckles on the door.  
  
He waits a few minutes before knocking again. This time, the door swings open and he’s greeted by a guy that looks vaguely familiar. He nods Arthur in and slams the door shut behind him. The cabin is dark except for the hole that leads to the basement, uncovered and glowing with light.  
  
“I’m looking for--”  
  
“Downstairs, sir.”  
  
Arthur raises an eyebrow but heads down the stairs, swallowing more second thoughts. When he reaches the bottom, he is instantly pulled aside and groped vehemently. It takes him a minute to realize the curt movements mean he’s being patted down. He’s then released and shoved towards the center of the room.  
  
“Darling! What a pleasant surprise.”  
  
He turns and is greeted by Eames, approaching him with a wide-armed embrace. Before Arthur can object, Eames drowns him inside brawn arms. In his ear, Eames speaks in a hushed, unfocused voice, “Follow my lead, don’t ask questions until we’re out.”  
  
Arthur almost objects but then registers what Eames just instructed him. Eames turns back to the other side of the room and says, “Gentleman, if you’ll excuse me, there is a personal matter that needs sorting.”  
  
Arthur barely catches a glance in the opposite direction of the room before Eames shuffles him up the stairs. All he manages to see is a blur of men crowded around the craps table.  Arthur trips over himself but barely has time to collect himself because Eames just kept pushing him. Upstairs, the vaguely familiar guy barely bats an eye at Eames shoving Arthur out the door.  
  
When they’re finally outside, Arthur was certifiably fuming. He fixes his off-center shirt and adjusts the waist of his pants, “What the hell was that!”  
  
Eames clasps his hands and brings them to his chest. “I’m sorry about that. You dropped by in the middle of something, which I don’t mind, really, it’s just I can’t haven them seeing you and getting ideas.”  
  
Arthur breathes deeply and tries to roll the tension off his shoulders. He finds it difficult to appreciate being manhandled by a couple of thugs. He doesn’t even want to know what the hell Eames is talking about, and he knows he shouldn’t ask or he’ll get a face full of front door.  
  
Eames steps forward, a hand on Arthur’s wrist to get his attention, “Are you alright, Arthur? They didn’t hurt you did they?”  
  
Arthur pulls his wrist away and shakes his head. The cold slips through the thin fabric of his shirt, sending chilled shivers down his spine. “I just wanted to talk to you about last--last-t night-t,” his teeth betray him.  
  
Eames shrugs off his leather jacket and pulls it across Arthur’s shoulders, without waiting for approval. Not that Arthur’s objection would have stopped him. “What the hell is the matter with you?”  
  
Adjusting the collar, he brushes Arthur’s hair and frowns, “Is your hair wet?”  
  
Arthur pushes his hands away but leaves the jacket, for warmth and not because of what it smells like. Eames is wearing a black button-down, that’s open at the throat and rolled up at the sleeves. Arthur sees the muscles of his forearm flex against the cold, but doesn’t return the jacket.  
  
Eames continues scolding him, putting his hands on him all over again “You’re such a prat, you know that? You’re going to catch a cold with your hair wet in this chill.”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes, “I’m fine. Take your jacket back--you look colder than I do.”  
  
Eames presses his hands against the chest of the jacket to keep Arthur from taking it off. “No, keep it on. At least while you’re around me. Otherwise, I’ll have to wrap myself around you to keep you warm.”  
  
Arthur huffs, “Fine, whatever.”  
  
“Thank you. So what is it that you wanted to talk about?”  
  
Arthur pushes his arms through the sleeves and looks down at his shoes. “I wanted to talk to you about our date.”  
  
Eames reaches out and grabs Arthur’s wrist again, “About how you can’t wait any longer and wish to ravish me now on the shore of the lake?”  
  
“No, I--”  
  
“In the woods, then?”  
  
Arthur fights the initial urge to laugh and settles on taking his wrist back from Eames yet again. He tentatively meets his gaze, “Actually, I wanted to apologize for how I acted last night. I was under the effects on the drug and I’m going to have to cancel the date in light of that.”  
  
Eames pulls Arthur’s wrist, clenching his fingers around the bones for a minute, “Hmm,” he murmurs thoughtfully.  
  
Arthur twists his wrist in Eames’ grip defensively and continues, “Yes--I’m not usually like that and following the course of actions that I took while under the influence just doesn’t sound practical.  I mean no offense or anything, you’re a decent guy, I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about what kind of--”  
  
“Hold on, hold on there, love. Let me get this straight. The one time you indulge in your actual desires and come onto a bloke that you clearly fancy, you decide it’s too radical a move and should therefore be reversed? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of cutting loose? Actually, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of living your life?”  
  
“That’s not even what this is about. I didn’t even mean to take the drug. I am not the kind of person--”  
  
“That takes risks? That lets themselves have any fun? Yes, I was starting to gather that for myself, thanks.”  
  
Arthur is approaching the point of exasperation, “You don’t even know me, you--”  
  
“Hence the date. To get to know you. Do keep up.”  
  
Arthur feels the anger bubbling in his stomach. Eames is just pushing him now to see how far he’ll go. “Eames, I’ll say it again. Real slow so you can understand: I’m not going to date you.”  
  
Eames quirks an eyebrow and leans into Arthur’s space, “Are you sure you’re telling me that? And not just trying to convince yourself? Because I can convince you to take a chance without all this passive aggressive nonsense.”  
  
“No, there is nothing passive about my aggression--”  
  
“It’s pretty simple.” Eames barrels on, ”Lesson the first: let go. Can you let one tiny little piece of your life up to your unabashed inhibitions? Come on, roll the proverbial die, Arthur.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth to bite back but Eames cuts him off again, “Actually. Wait, you can roll a real die,” he sticks his hand in his pocket and then opens his palm to reveal a red die.  
  
Distracted by the absurdity, Arthur asks, “Why the hell do you have a die in your pockets?”  
  
Eames grins wolfishly, “Just a bit of fun. Stop changing the subject. Now, roll the _corporeal_ die and if it lands on an odd number, we have a date. Anything else, I’ll leave you be. Sound good?”  
  
Arthur narrows his eyes, menacingly in ways he learned in the years he’s spent with Cobb, “No.”  
  
“Well, tough. You roll it or I roll it. At least this way, you have a chance to get me to back off.”  
  
Arthur watches Eames’ playful gaze turn into a genuine challenge. He doesn’t for a second believe that Eames isn’t completely legitimate on his threats. If Arthur doesn’t roll it himself, Eames will probably cheat him. He grabs the die and shakes it minimally and drops it on the ground. He doesn’t take his eyes off Eames, who raises his eyebrows in amusement. “Shall we see the results, then?”  
  
“Yeah, okay.”  
  
They both move slightly and Arthur is the first to cast his eyes down. The back of his neck tingles as he flushes and Eames laughs, a throaty, happy cackle. “It landed on a five, Arthur. A deal is a deal.”  
  
“No, you can’t just--”  
  
“I’m rejecting it, by the way.” Eames says, “I reject your apology and your offer to help you let me down gently. But now that we have a date, well, there’s no need for it anyway. I was just making sure we were on the same page.”  
  
Arthur’s chest tightens, “It wasn’t something for you to reject. I’m telling you now that we--”  
  
“I’ll pick you up on Friday, say seven thirty?”  
  
“No, Eames, I am--”  
  
“Eight it is then. But any later and we probably won’t even make it dinner,” Eames’ motorcycle voice rumbles and Arthur has to pretend he can’t feel the deep vibrations of it.  
  
“Eames--”  
  
“Now that that’s settled, I’ve got to head back inside, do you mind?” he moves to take back the leather jacket.  
  
Arthur shrugs it off and pushes it back to him. “I’m not going on a date with you.”  
  
“But you are,” Eames replies, effortlessly.  
  
Arthur huffs as the other starts walking away, “You’re such an arrogant bastard. I don’t know if you noticed, but I was on GHB last night, so how are you so sure that I even _want_ to date you?”  
  
Eames turns just before the door, “That’s funny,” he muses aloud, “I don’t seem to recall asking.”  
  
With that, he enters the cabin and closes the door behind him. Arthur almost goes up to the door and kicks it in but he refuses to admit Eames is under his skin. Especially to Eames. Instead, he crouches and picks up the red die. It’s cold in his hands but he sticks it in his pocket and huffs off.  
  
Twisting his fingers around the die in his jean’s pocket, he’s mostly talking to the cold, “Fuck this.”  
  
-  
  
When he finally makes it back to the room, all Yusuf does is glance at him before announcing, “Eames called. Says you should dress business casual on Friday.”  
  
Arthur crashes onto his bed, curdles underneath a blanket and opens a nearby law book. The walk back took longer than expected and Arthur got to the point he felt like the cold was creeping in between the goose-flesh on his body. Regardless, he’s got that report due Monday on _Roe vs. Wade_ and Eames and his ridiculous antics will have to wait.  
  
Yet, when he covers his face, his hands are warm and he smells leather.  
  
But he keeps them there. And he keeps the die in his pocket.  
  
-

Thursday night, Arthur is at a breaking point.  
  
His week was swallowed by echoes of pens scratching paper late at night, styrofoam cups of disgusting coffee that always seem to need refilling, debate team meetings and controversial political speeches. Arthur could recite entire chunks of the Roe vs. Wade courtroom transcript. His dreams are now comprised of test tube babies and angry Christian slogans.  
  
The report he turned in on Monday was promptly followed by prepping for a debate on the political, social, economic, and scientific aspects of abortion, arguing pro-choice. That Thursday evening, he has two hours left to go over his notes and get ready for the debate occurring late that evening. Thus, the breaking point.  
  
He’s sitting in the far edge of his room, against the wall, smoking a strawberry flavored cigarette that Mal passed him through Yusuf after he exhausted their supply. His notes are scattered all over his bed and another set of notes scattered on the floor. At the center of the circle of notes, sits Robert Fischer, Arthur’s debate teammate.  
  
Robert’s talking but Arthur’s just listening to his voice, fluent and unyielding. It’s soft but firm with conviction and sharp words tumble through it effortlessly. It’s comforting but only because Arthur likes knowing he won’t have to carry the team.  
  
When Fischer stops talking, Arthur feels less like a brick has replaced his sternum. His relief is completely real. “You are fucking amazing.”  
  
Fischer purses his lips, trying to hide the smile but the red rushing to his cheeks doesn’t escape Arthur in the least. With any other kid, it wouldn’t matter but Robert has cheekbones that would make Greek gods jealous.  His face was carved by nihilistic angels, designed to disguise a new kind of revolution and Fischer’s eyes give Arthur the impression that whenever Fischer does rebel, politicians and corporate executives will weep like forgotten prostitutes on street corners.  
  
“That trophy is ours, Rob. We are going to put the hurt on those sons of bitches.”  
  
Fischer smiles now, wide and amused. He meets Arthur’s gaze through it, in a way that makes Arthur’s throat tight. “Yeah, we are.”  
  
\--  
  
Throughout the whole night, Arthur only feels fear sting his chest for a second, when a judge jumps on them for rebuttal on a question about _Dubay vs. Wells_ and he couldn’t remember, mind blocked by Melaine McCulley quotes. But when he’s about to conceit defeat, Fischer slaps his buzzer and answers in one smooth, long flow.  
  
Arthur was impressed, to say the least.  
  
After that, Arthur steps up his game and before he knows it, it’s more of a competition between him and Fischer to answer than it was with the actual competitors. Arthur finds out that Robert is as vigorous and merciless as he suspected.  
  
At the end, they split the prize, posing for photos with the trophy between them, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. In their subsequent interviews for the school newspaper, Robert quotes the Fourteenth Amendment like he wrote it and Arthur--  
  
Arthur is more than impressed.  
  
\--  
  
Which is why it’s not exactly a surprise when Fischer kisses him. Arthur had figured it was bound to happen. They’ve been stressing for three days about woman’s rights embryos and infant mortality rates, so of course it happened. Of course they got  drunk and ended up like this.  Well, drunk-ish, they’re drunk, maybe not shitfaced, but past tipsy.  
  
Fischer invited Arthur to his room, which is closer from the lecture hall than his own. Which has beers--a lot, apparently and they deserve the celebratory drink. Victory feels good with beer, warm in his belly. And it wasn’t like either of them was being coy exactly. Not that Arthur really minds, because Fischer is sort of pretty and there isn’t a problem with that. He doesn’t have a problem kissing Fischer.  
  
Arthur doesn’t mind the way Fischer clips him against the dresser and pushes his mouth against his. He doesn’t mind the taste of mint and victory and beer. Granted, it’s a little gross but Arthur imagines he must taste the same so it’s okay.  
  
Fischer curls his hands into Arthur’s hair, pulling until Arthur opens his mouth and their tongues meet, rough and needy and pretty sloppy but that might be the beer. It’s okay that Arthur is kissing Fischer even thought they barely know each other. Arthur’s drunk-ish. Arthur being drunk-ish is okay because he’s been buried nose deep in uteri lately. So, right now, he kinda wants to be buried nose deep in the nearest warm body.  
  
Besides, on top of all their other shit, Arthur --- oh.  
  
“Wait, wait, hold on a sec.” Arthur pushes Fischer off, panting lightly.  
  
Fischer’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes are wild, dilated. His lips are wet and swollen, panting in ways that only make Arthur dizzier. “What is it?”  
  
“I’m sick, remember? I have a cold.”  
  
Fischer laughs, shaking, “Yeah, so what?”  
  
And that’s all Arthur needs to pull Fischer against him, this time slow-like.  
  
And Arthur doesn’t have a problem.  
  
It’s fine for a bit, having fun with long kisses and roaming hands. They kiss and push and groan softly into each other’s mouth, tasting the roof, tracing the ridges, gulping breaths and trying to stay put together. Fischer kisses with tongue, almost conservatively but Arthur kisses with teeth and pent-up aggression. They experiment for a bit but having built a rhythm, their lips move in off-center waves, smacking in ways that make Arthur’s chest hot. Fischer’s hands roam up and down Arthur’s back, rushing shivers down his body. Arthur keeps his thumbs trained on Fischer’s cheekbones, controlling and feeling.  
  
It’s when Fischer’s fingers find their way to the buttons of Arthur’s shirt. Robert moves down, pushing his lips against Arthur’s collar, licking delicately. Arthur wraps his arms around Robert’s neck, fingering Robert’s hair and moaning appreciatively. It’s when Fischer bites him that Arthur snaps out of the lustful haze (Arthur’s never been a biter) and belated realization dawns on him.  
  
This time, he really pushes Fischer off. “What are you doing?”  
  
Fischer wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist again, “I told you, I don’t care if you’re sick.” He goes to kiss him again but Arthur stops him.  
  
“How does that have to do with you taking my clothes off?”  
  
Fischer takes a step back, paling. “What are you talking about?”  
  
Arthur pushes him away further, buttoning shirt back up. “What makes you think I want you to take my clothes off?”  
  
Fischer’s flush fades, his eyes narrowing. “That’s usually how these things progress.”  
  
Arthur buttons his collar and undoes his tie, “I don’t know what kind of people you run with, but I’m not going to fuck you.”  
  
“Wait, are you being serious?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
Fischer rolls his eyes, “C’mon, don’t be such a kid.”  
  
“There’s nothing kiddish about not sleeping with a fucking stranger. Who, as it turns out, is a douche.”  
  
“Arthur. You can’t fucking just leave me here. At least give me a hand.”  
  
“Fuck yourself, Fischer. Just because we won you think you can fuck me?”  
  
Fischer glances around, then back at him, “What about Eames?”  
  
“What about Eames! Eames has nothing to do with this.”  
  
Arthur hasn’t been thinking about Eames all week, he hasn’t been skating a cold die down the flat of his stomach before bed, he hasn’t been letting his mind wander, nothing has been happening.  
  
Robert’s leer is glacial now, “Fuck you, Arthur. We all saw you dancing with him last week.”  
  
“What the fuck does dancing have to do with anything? I danced with Mal, too.”  
  
“I’m not an idiot.”  
  
Arthur’s starting to get the feeling that he’ll have to take a swing at Robert to get out of this. “I didn’t say you were an idiot. What the fuck is your problem?”  
  
“You’re my problem right now, Arthur. Everyone knows you fucked Eames. It’s not a goddamn secret.”  
  
Arthur is appalled by this, “Who the fuck said that?”  
  
Fischer takes his moment of confusion to push himself back into Arthur’s space. He rubs his erection on Arthur’s thigh, breathing into his neck, whimpering, “So why can’t you fuck me?”  
  
Disgusted, Arthur shoves him off and swings. A left hook throws Fischer back over his bed, across the room. A string of blood appears at the corner of his mouth. He shoots a glare at Arthur, the kind that speaks curiosity and malice, maybe even premeditation. Arthur can’t help the twitch in his fingers, weaponless. “Fuck you, Fischer. You’re such a fucking creep. Don’t talk to me anymore. I’m switching debate partners. The next time you come near me, I’ll knock your ass out.”  
  
Arthur barely has the presence of mind to grab his tie, slipping off his shoulder, and storms out in a murderous rage. The halls are angry white with a few people but he shoves his way through. He pounds out the hallway and down the stairs until he can’t hear Fischer calling him back anymore. When he’s finally outside, he’s almost thankful for the harsh wind. It stings his cheeks and stabs shivers through his clothes but it clears his head.  
  
He’s starting to have coherent thoughts again. _What a fucking creep. Shit, it’s cold. Where’s my jacket? Fuck. I’m not going back to that asshole for a jacket. I rather freeze. Shit._  
  
He crosses the campus in swift strides and barely makes it in for curfew, thinking of Chinese whispers.  
  
-  
  
In this dream, it’s always the pain that gets him, never so much the content of the dream, but the strike of vivid pain, crawling and ripping his veins apart to wake him up. He’s been having this dream since junior high and it always starts the same and it’s always the pain that ends it.  
  
He’s walking, barefoot, for what feels like miles through hot, coarse desert road. The shirt he’s wearing melts right onto his back, from the heat of the sun. It sticks to his skin and melts until all he has left is blistering skin,  bursting open. The wounds sting and bleed fruitlessly, dribbling down his arms and each of his ribs, dripping beneath him. With every breath, his throat wheezes with dehydration.  
  
Every time he takes a step, his arches burn and the soles send shooting pains up his calf and straight to his femur. It’s sharp and unyielding, growing in strength as he walks. He always gets to the part where the skin of his feet rips open and every step he takes is accented with the soft squelch of his blood.  
  
The concrete is merciless and burns through the arches of his feet. He walks down the road, trying to reach the horizon. As he gets closer, he can hear the sound of waves rocking against a shore. Behind him is only the blurry, acute heat. He has no choice but to keep walking.  
  
He walks to the end of the road, and it always just stops there with a cliff hanging open at the end, he's only got two options at this point. He can turn around and walk back the same way. Or he can jump.  
  
But every time, before he can make a decision, the game changes. A hand springs out and grabs onto the ledge, dragging itself up. Arthur steps away from it, as a body follows an arm follows that hand. Those wretched, broken knuckles. Tall stands a being, faceless and formless, reaching out to embrace Arthur. His touch is cool, so Arthur allows it, but the ice freezes his hands burns his skin. It reaches inside and burns his veins and when he can’t move from such numbing pain, the being splits him open.  
  
He sinks his crooked jaws into the bones of Arthur’s back, gnawing through layers of ice and peeling off melted, sizzling skin until he reaches the soft, chewy spine. Nose deep in his bodily organs, the shadow breathes in sharp hisses. Arthur falls to the ground and is kicked onto his numbed back. His bones crack and leak marrow in the heat.  
  
Grinning through white teeth stained purple black, he reaches out and grabs Arthur’s neck with sharp claws. They rip into his skin and Arthur’s heaving chest can’t heave anymore--not in this heat, there's so much sweat and the stench of blood is overpowering--and he passes out from the pain but he wakes up in real life.  
  
When he looks for the scars, the blood, the wounds all he finds is smooth skin and his chest can heave again. Arthur vomits in the bathroom and goes back to class.  
  
-  
  
It was his last class of the day that he fell asleep in, and he had that dream, meaning either he’s got or already has a fever. Mild or fierce, his temperature has risen, so he’s having the dream. He toughs it out, though. There’s only an hour left and he can skip debate and go straight to bed. He won the debate team a trophy so they won’t be too mad if he skips one meeting and takes a nap. Arthur wishes he could say as much for Cobb.  
  
Class ends and the bell rings and Arthur walks back to his room in a haze. Inside, he slips off his shoes and jacket and shirt, tie, socks. He changes into a pair of black pajama bottoms in a fog. The pillow is cool against his skin and it feels distractingly good. Arthur is slipping on sleep when his phone rings, sharp and violently, the ringtone he set for Cobb.  
  
The ring is muddled and distant through his pile of clothes on the floor. He reaches for it blindly, making no real effort to get it in time. It doesn’t matter though, because when it stops, it only takes three seconds before it starts ringing again. Cursing, Arthur finally brings the phone to his ear, answering, “What is it, Dom?”  
  
“Hey, are you busy?”  
  
“Yes. Fuck off.”  
  
Dom laughs, “Come down to the parking lot of your dorm, yeah? I’m outside. I brought you coffee.”  
  
Arthur’s eyes snap open, “You brought me-- _what_?”  
  
“You’re in Fuller Hall, right? I’m right outside. Silver Chrysler. Hurry, yeah? Your coffee’s getting cold.”  
  
Arthur sits up, pulling on the nearest tee shirt at the foot of the bed. It might be Yusuf’s but he’s not as worried about that. “You’ve been driving? God, you maniac! For how long?”  
  
Dom coughs, sickening on his end, “Yes. For, maybe, half an hour. There’s a highway just--”  
  
“You were on the highway? You’re such a stupid fuck. Don’t move, I’ll be right down.”  
  
Arthur pockets his phone and pulls on his jacket. He sticks his feet in his slippers and runs out of the room, barely having the presence of mind to close the door behind him. He flies down the stairs, fighting waves of nausea he knows will hit him once he’s sure Dom is okay.  
  
At the last landing, he pushes the door open and storms out into the parking lot. He sees Dom’s car right away, parked a few spaces away from where Arthur is standing. Arthur crosses the lot and swings the driver’s seat door open. Arthur finds Dom slouched against his seat, his head tipped back and looking up at him through bleary eyes. “Hey, Arthur?”  
  
Arthur scowls. Dom looks fine, if not happy. “What happened?”  
  
“Help me out,” Dom says, ignoring him.  
  
Arthur moves to grab Dom around the waist, pulling him out of the car, resting him against it while he shuts off the engine. He turns back to Dom, who’s laughing at him in a fit of hysteria, and demands, “What did you do?”  
  
Dom reaches out and pulls Arthur to him. Arthur stumbles a little but catches himself against the car. He’s caught between being pissed and worried. “Dom, just tell me.”  
  
“Shh,” Dom whispers, smiling loosely, and petting Arthur’s hair like a lunatic.  
  
Dom grabs his other hand pulls it up to his chest, pressing Arthur’s hand against his shirt, so can feel the expanse of his chest as Dom breathes and finds the shirt is wet and warm and Dom smells wrong. He’s wearing a black shirt but Arthur can tell it’s soaked and it isn’t long before he finds the tell-tale rip. He pulls away and looks down, his palms are stained with blood. “You fucking asshole. What happened?” Then instincts kick in, “Shit, where you followed?  
  
Dom shakes his head, “Let’s go inside.”  
  
He doesn’t bother to ask where Dom lifted this car and he doesn’t want to know the answer. He wraps an arm around Dom’s waist and grips his hip to keep him steady. Dom throws an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, pressing his nose against Arthur’s neck, to maneuver inside as quick as they can without hurting him. Somewhere along the second staircase, Dom’s forehead slides down onto Arthur’s temple and it’s cold and lessens the impending nausea but it scares Arthur to think about Dom at the preliminary stages of shock.  
  
In the room, Arthur sets Dom on the bed and tears off his jacket and tosses it on the desk. His hands are covered in blood, so he grabs the shirt he’s wearing and wipes them clean. Dom watches, faintly entertained, with a half smile on his face. In the bathroom, he grabs his first aid kit, and anything he can to stop the bleeding. He reaches behind the mirror and pulls out some antibiotics and the painkillers he hid there before he knew Yusuf was a drug runner and probably had better stuff.  
  
When he gets back to him, Dom is gripping the edges of the bed like he might fall forward. Arthur grabs a pair of scissors and rips Dom’s shirt down the middle. He slips both the shirt and jacket down Dom’s shoulders, only to be sickened by what he finds.  
  
Dom’s chest is scarred, as it has been since he could walk, but. Now he’s got a laceration wrapping around his chest, bleeding in a steady stream. “Jesus, Dom, what the hell happened!”  
  
Arthur stands and grabs a bath towel, pressing it against Dom and keeping pressure to stop the bleeding. Dom hisses but Arthur doesn’t let up. Dom tips his head back, smiling, “Knife fight. Isn’t that nuts?”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes, Dom always gets hysterical when he loses blood. He’ll have to wait until he cleans him up to get a straight answer. Arthur cleans his chest up until he can see the wound clearly. It’s a gash, really, from his third rib to the curve of his back, jagged and long but not too deep. Arthur gives him weak painkillers and antibiotics and makes Dom talk to him to keep him awake. Mostly about the color of the ocean and Amish communities and the new girl he’s dating, Celeste.  
  
Arthur cleans him up and presses gauze around his ribs. He’s considered stitching Dom up but he gets loud when he’s in pain and Arthur can’t have that in such a crowded place. He considered the cabin, but then dispelled that thought, Dom would never make it across the campus, the courts and the woods without passing out.  
  
When he’s done, Arthur finds himself covered in blood. He’s gotten Yusuf’s shirt covered in blood and as he peels it off and throws it away, vows to buy him a new one. With Dom at ease from the pain, Arthur heads to the bathroom to wash his hands. The vanilla hand soap makes him so nauseous he pukes. After that, he washes off the soap with hot water, just to set back the nausea.  
  
He marches back to the room and wakes Dom up. “Hey.”  
  
Dom’s eyes open just a slit, “What?”  
  
“I’m going to sleep, move over.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes, “Don’t be a douche.”  
  
Dom frowns petulantly, “It hurts. Climb over. I’ll be the little spoon.”  
  
“You hate being the little spoon.” Arthur climbs over, careful not to stir Dom.  
  
“Not a lot of other options,” Dom waves a hand, gesturing to the gauze, “You could have slept on your roommate’s bed.”  
  
“One set of blood stained bed sheets are enough, thanks.”  
  
Dom sighs, low and morose, even though he knows Arthur hadn’t meant it that way. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”  
  
Arthur pulls Dom’s back to his chest and wraps an arm around his waist, carefully swung low not to hurt him. “You want to tell me what happened?”  
  
Dom kicks Arthur’s shin absently. “I took a job and it went bad.”  
  
Arthur pulled away, glaring at the back of his neck. “You went on a job without me?”  
  
The sudden movement makes Arthur dizzy and his head drops on Dom’s shoulder before he could stop himself. “Well, obviously, I learned my lesson--dude, shit.” Dom hisses and pulls away from Arthur, then hisses again at the movement of his ribs.  
  
“Arthur, was that you’re forehead?”  
  
Arthur grunts in response, laying back on the pillow and trying to put space between the two of them. It appears that Arthur’s fever has gone up in the last hour. Dom twists his hand and feels around for Arthur’s face. He grabs his chin and tugs it experimentally before moving onto his cheek, his temple, and finally--his forehead. Dom curses, pulling his hand away. “You have a fever, you shit head. Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
Arthur shrugs, carelessly. “Some cocksucker was bleeding to death in my room. Kinda monopolizes the topic of discussion.”  
  
Dom can’t twist around without reopening a slowly closing wound, making him pretty useless. Arthur knows that, probably planned around it. “I fucking hate you sometimes.”  
  
“Go home then, aforementioned cocksucker.”  
  
“Go die, you asshole.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Arthur mutters back, without any real bite.  
  
“Not tonight, dear. I have a hole in my side.”  
  
Arthur has no retort so they settle back into the silence. It’s dark in the room, Arthur had cut the lights as soon as Dom had started falling asleep. Arthur presses his forehead against Dom’s shoulder and doesn’t think about how cold Dom’s skin is. The silence is comfortable, it suggests they sleep and sleep.  
  
Arthur has been sleeping in the same bed as Dom for a few years. It’s never been anything other than brotherly. Being so far away from home makes Arthur sick, and Dom is a reminder of home, always warm and often crazy.  
  
Dom suddenly tenses, “Arthur.”  
  
Arthur hums, “What?”  
  
“Did you have that psychotic dream yet?”  
  
Arthur considers lying, “Yeah, earlier today.”  
  
“How far did you get?”  
  
Arthur knows Dom doesn’t want to know, but he’s asking so, “It was ripping my throat out.”  
  
Dom curses, “Jesus Christ.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” Arthur never likes telling Dom about the dream.   
  
Dom hesitates, “Are you--did you take cold medicine?”  
  
“Yeah, I did.”  
  
“Liar,” Dom knows better.  
  
“I will. Later. Let’s get some sleep.”  
  
Dom is exhausted from bleeding and quipping so he just sighs and agrees. “Later, you will.”  
  
-  
  
This time, the sleep is dreamless. Which Arthur sort of expected because of all the stress that Dom just put him under and the amount of energy he demanded from himself. Still, he wakes up to Dom, shaking him by kicking his shins.  
  
Arthur shoves his shoulder, “What?”  
  
“Someone is at the door. I think your roommate forgot his key.”  
  
Arthur groans and someone knocks on the door again. He fumbles in the dark to move around Dom without hurting him. Still, Dom is an unrelenting asshole and trips him on his way out. Arthur stumbles but catches himself on the dresser. “Fucker,” he mumbles when Dom laughs.  
  
Moving to the door, Arthur opens it and hisses at the bright hallway light. Yusuf frowns at him from the other side, “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”  
  
Arthur turns away from him and opens the door, heading back to the bed. Dom sits up, all slow moment and gritting jaw. Arthur crawls around him and says, “Yusuf, this is Cobb, he’s an asshole. Cobb, this is Yusuf, he’s my roommate.”  
  
Laying his head back on the pillow, Arthur relaxes into the ghost warmth of Dom’s body on the bed. The covers, twisted in his grip, tangled underneath his body. All he hears is the first strings of introduction between Dom and Yusuf before his eyes sting themselves shut and he gives in.  
  
-  
  
The third time he wakes up, he feels substantially better. In between all the fatigue that’s rolling off his shoulders, he can feel the someone’s weight on the bed, but keeps his eyes closed as he wakes up. There’s a hand on his forehead, over what feels like a wet rag.  
  
He can hear the clacking of Yusuf’s keyboard and Cobb talking about the upcoming March Madness. When he opens his eyes, the lights are dimmed but burn a little. Cobb is sitting next to him, at the edge of the bed. He raises a hand to his head and feels for Dom’s hand to see what he’s holding. It might be an ice pack. Arthur would just like some specificity. “Hey, douchebag.”  
  
Cobb turns and smiles at him, relieved almost. He laughs, “Feeling better, are we?”  
  
Arthur nods and Yusuf turns around and grins at him. “Good to hear. You’d better get up and get ready. It’s almost eight and Eames will be here any minute now. And if you think for a second that you having a fever is going to stop him, then you severely underestimated his stubbornness.”  
  
Cobb grins at this, turning back to Arthur, “Oh, yes. Yusuf told me all about your date with _Eames_.”  
  
“You told him?” Arthur glares at Yusuf.  
  
He shrugs helplessly in response, “He’s very convincing.”  
  
Arthur sits up, pushing Cobb away as he continues, “Yeah, he told me. And he’s right, I’m very convincing. But I’m more interested in hearing what happened with you and Robert Fischer last night.”  
  
Arthur glances between Cobb and Yusuf, looking for an exit. He’d come back last night pissed and flustered and had refused to tell Yusuf what happened. Yet, he feigns ignorance, “Last night?”  
  
Cobb nods, “I want to know why you went to his place after the debate last night. Why you came back pissed, without your jacket in the winter and why Robert Fischer showed up at breakfast with a split lip this morning. You want to tell me what happened.” It strikes Arthur cruel how Cobb’s last sentence isn’t a question.  
  
Arthur closes his eyes and pretends not to listen to them, but there’s a pressure in his belly building and it’ll start hurting if he doesn’t pee soon. So instead of answering, Arthur stands and grabs a clean bath towel, disappearing into the bathroom. “I better shower if Eames is going to be here soon..”  
  
Arthur knows better than to think that will fix it. He’s just turning on the water when the door clicks open and Cobb walks in. Arthur knows he locked it but a lock has never stopped Cobb before. He hasn’t put a shirt on, probably in fear of hurting the gash. The bandages are clean but wrinkled with bright red specks where the wound is the deepest. He leans against the door frame and watches Arthur expectantly.  
  
Arthur keeps his ground, glaring at Cobb for a full two minutes before Cobb slides a hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out the red die. “I found this on the floor. It’s nice work to the untrained eye, but I know a loaded die when I see it. I was almost proud of the work but then it occurred to me why you would need a loaded die.  Do you want to tell me what you’ve been getting yourself into?”  
  
Arthur scowls, “Why don’t you tell me what happened to you? Why would you take a job without me?”  
  
“I don’t know if you noticed, Arthur, but you’re incapacitated for work. You live ten fucking miles out of the city and it’s either this or the military. I would prefer to keep you in a place where fuckers aren’t going to shoot at you and you’re out here, gambling with drug runners, “ his voice is rising with every word, “and punching pretty rich boys in the jaw. Eames has a reputation, Arthur. Fischer’s family could probably have you killed. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Do you want to get shipped out? I wouldn’t put it above your ass-hat of a mother.”  
  
Arthur sniffs, staring down at the shower tiles, running with water. Cobb’s voice is overpowering to the water’s roar, so it’s not like he can pretend he didn’t hear any of that. “Close the door.”  
  
Cobb slips in and slams the door behind him. Arthur takes the die and toys with it in his palm while he talks, spilling truth after truth until the die slips from his hand. When he’s done talking, he picks up the die.  
  
It landed on five.  
  
-  
  
When Arthur steps out of the bathroom, less than twenty minutes later, he’s dressed simply in a pair of navy blue slacks and a white button-up. In the room, Yusuf turns when Cobb wolf whistles from his position on top of the dresser. Arthur rolls his eyes when Yusuf starts cat calling him too, but cannot suppress the blush that reaches the back of his neck.  
  
“Well, hello, beautiful.”  
  
Arthur spins around and sees the door is open and Eames is standing there, grinning lecherously. Behind him, Arthur hears Cobb jump off the desk and walk up. Arthur can feel the tension coiling in Cobb’s shoulders from where he’s standing. Cobb always had a thing about Arthur dating guys in the business.  
  
“Arthur,” Cobb asks.  
  
Arthur turns to face Cobb and says everything in a calm voice, “It’s fine, Cobb. I am going. It’s not like if I stayed, you would be up for a party anyway. Stay here, rest. I’ll be back in a few hours.”  
  
As they exit, Yusuf flashes Arthur a thumbs-up and Cobb sneers maniacally but nothing stops Eames from leading Arthur out of the room with a hand on the small of his back. They walk to the car in relative silence and when Eames asks who the blond kid was, all Arthur replies is, “Cobb” and Eames doesn’t ask again.  
  
They reach their location and are seated immediately in a private, quiet table. It takes Arthur a minute to realize they’ve got the best table in the house. The waiters bow and never meet their gaze and Arthur is finding it increasingly difficult not to feel like a mob wife. They haven’t even order the appetizers when a waiter arrives, holding a bottle of champagne.  
  
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Eames, questioning his motives. Eames ignores him and addresses the waiter, “What’s this?”  
  
The waiter gestures to a man across the room, “Compliments of Mr. Saito.”  
  
Eames smiles graciously and bows his head, then raises a glass in greeting to the man across the room.  The man, dressed far too well to just be another associate, raises the glass in turn and drinks with Eames from across the room. The waiter leaves and Arthur is itching to ask when Eames cuts him off, serving him champagne.  
  
“I know this looks like I’m trying to get you drunk, Arthur, but I’m not. Just have a glass or face the wrath of the most honorable man I know. I assure you that under normal circumstances, I would in no way force liquor on you. That is gauche and as you can tell I am a gentleman, through and through,” Eames offers Arthur the glass, grinning innocently.  
  
But after an off-balanced day with Cobb and the fever dream, alcohol is precisely what Arthur would like at the moment. He accepts the drink and together, they finish the bottle. The entire dinner passes in polite conversation. Arthur drinks expensive champagne glass after glass and it’s not until they’re standing outside the restaurant that he realizes how much he actually drank, and it all rushes to his head.  
  
He’s not drunk, not even drunk-ish. Eames is leading with a hot hand on his back, towards the car again and the night is over, stolen under stiff waiters and distractingly enjoyable meals. “Well, that was over quicker than expected.”  
  
Arthur’s talking out of his mouth but it sounds far away a bit and he doesn’t mean to sound so disappointed, but he does and some things can’t be helped. “Are you taking me home now, then?”  
  
Eames looks at Arthur over the vague light from the car’s dashboard, in the headlights of passing cars. Arthur can feel the heat growing in his chest and he doesn’t want the moment to pass but he can’t be disappointed when Eames says, “Actually, I want to show you something. Alright?”  
  
Arthur isn’t loose, but the tension in his shoulders is gone. He’s thinking clearly at clear speeds  and he can’t think of a reason not to agree, “Yeah, alright.”  
  
Eames flips through half-alright songs on the radio and Arthur laughs when he makes jokes about pop stars. He can’t think of a reason not to. They drive into the outer edges of town until Arthur only just recognizes the streets. When Eames slows the car to a stop, he’s parked at the side of the road. He kills the engine and turns to Arthur, “Wait there.”  
  
Arthur watches curiously as Eames rounds the car and opens the door for him, “Your Majesty.”  
  
Arthur snorts at him but still follows him out. Eames leads him out, with an arm thrown around his shoulders. They walk about half a block before Arthur can see what Eames wanted to show him. It’s a bridge.  
  
It’s not particularly large or assertive in design, but it overlooks a highway and its glowing in headlights, and completely alone. Arthur stops when he sees the spot, “You want to take me out there where no one can hear my screams over the traffic?”  
  
Eames turns to laugh at him, “I promise not to kill you so violently.”  
  
Eames slips his fingers around Arthur’s wrist, pulling him towards the bridge, along the sidewalk. Arthur lets himself be lead into the center of the bridge and Eames threads his free fingers into the chain link fence. Arthur turns his back to the highway and leans against the railing, but still doesn’t pull his wrist out of Eames’ grasp.  
  
Eames grins in the flood of headlights and picks Arthur’s wrist up, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over the bones. Arthur watches, entranced. Eames speaks again, his low drawl is clear, cutting through the noise, “D’you know why I brought you here?”  
  
Arthur purses his lips in thought, then nods in gesture to the traffic, “To murder me with an audience.”  
  
Eames smiles, and pulls Arthur’s hand up to his lips, brushing over the knuckles. “No, love. Take a look around.”  
  
Arthur does just that, glancing at back where they came from, to the highway behind him, the smear of red lights going forward as the cars past under the bridge and finally rests his eyes on Eames. “What is it?”  
  
Eames rolls his eyes, “Look up, you prawn.”  
  
Arthur tips his head back, laughing, and then sees what Eames means. Over the top of the horizon, the moon is a thin sliver. In the echoes of engines and the harsh exhales of Eames’ chest, Arthur zeroes in and he can hear his own heartbeat. It’s pounding against the edge of Eames’ fingernail and the moon is bursting out against the dark, He watches it for a minute, forgetting his purpose.  
  
“Did you bring me here because of the moon?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What is it then?”  
  
Arthur turns back to him and Eames smiles, “It’s nothing, actually. I just wanted to see the line of your neck in this light.”  
  
Arthur scoffs, “You are impossible,” but he can’t hide the smile that quivers his lower lip.  
  
Eames’ eyes glint, “I try,” and then, without thinking it through, he adds, “…around you, at least.”  
  
Arthur’s feet shift on their own accord, straightening up against Eames. “And what was the verdict?”  
  
Eames shakes off the glint, “On what?”  
  
The cold of the metal railing slips through the fabric of Arthur’s shirt. He left his jacket in the car, but it isn’t cold here. “On the line of my neck.”  
  
Eames shrugs, stepping closer into Arthur’s space and rubbing his palm. Eames’ fingers are cold inside the warmth but Arthur can’t think of a reason to pull away. “I’m not sure. I think I need a closer look.”  
  
Arthur laughs now, ducking his head to hide the dimples he knows will appear. Eames’ shoes scratch against the worn concrete, shifting closer. Arthur looks up, prepared to meet Eames halfway on this. The headlights pass over and over, blinding and then disappearing into a red blur behind the chain link fence on the other side of the bridge. The cavity between them is closing, in small predatory leers.  
  
Arthur is little surprised at himself by how much he wants to kiss Eames there. Eames’ fingers slip through the chain link and reach out to hold Arthur’s hip. The wind whistles sharply inside Arthur’s chest.  
  
It takes him a minute but then Arthur realizes it‘s not the wind. His phone is ringing deep in his pocket. Eames swears and pulls away, forgetting about Arthur’s hip and fingers hiding into the inside of his own pocket. He looks shaken, as if in a deep trance.  
  
Arthur answers the phone now, without checking the caller ID, “What the fuck could you possibly want?”  
  
“You left your jacket in my room.”  
  
Arthur snaps the phone shut, cursing the navy skies black. “Son of a bitch.”  
  
Eames is leaning against the fence now, both hands braced against it. He laughs, an honest chuckle, “I take it you don’t react well to being interrupted?”  
  
“Not really, no.”  
  
Arthur sighs but doesn’t move to put together their previous position, trying to stave off the wave of anger brought on by Fischer’s call. Eames stares out onto the traffic for a bit and Arthur watches the blur of red. He fingers the broken concrete on the ledge, ripping years old paint and pondering.  
  
Before he can decide anything conclusive, Eames’ phone rings. It’s not sharp, but it is obnoxious and Arthur can’t help that scoff that follows it. Eames grins through his hand as he answers, “Eames here… hey, Mal. No, I’m busy…” he laughs here, “Yes, with Arthur… no, not doing that… or that… blimey, I hope we do that,” Eames grin lasciviously in Arthur’s direction.  
  
Arthur snickers to himself, picking apart the paint on the railing.  
  
“I don’t know… perhaps? Let me ask.”  
  
Arthur raises an eyebrow and Eames leans in to tell him that Mal found a party, sounds good, if you want to go. That we should definitely go. Arthur looks at Eames through the slits of his peripheral vision and nods.  “Yeah, let’s go.”  
  
-  
  
Eames’ fingers don’t wrap around Arthur’s wrist the next time he leads him out of the car. They slide into Arthur’s palm and tug. Arthur follows, willingly and doesn’t let the shy smile on Eames’ lips go unnoticed.  
  
They move up the stairs in slow motions, Arthur is trying to drag this out. He wants this good night kiss before they reach Dom again. He knows the tension in his shoulders will come back and he doesn’t want Mr. Saito’s very brilliant champagne to go to waste.  
  
Eames’ fingers brush Arthur’s knuckles every other stair, at a steady pace. Arthur lives on the third floor. They make it to the door of Arthur’s room with minimal interruption. It’s late on a Friday night so the halls are empty because everyone will be at a party around now. They’re only here now to abandon the Oxford shirts and grab Yusuf and Co. before heading off to this house party.  
  
At the door, Eames leans against the frame and watches Arthur curiously. There’s a ruckus inside the room, combinations of laughter and shouts. He can’t help but think about last week, at the cabin, dancing with Eames.  
  
Eames brings Arthur’s hand up again, touching his lips against the third knuckle in a humble kiss. Arthur raises an eyebrow, for lack of else to do. Eames grins cheekily, “Just in case I don’t get a good night kiss.”  
  
Arthur means to correct that, but the door swings open and they snap apart. In the doorway, Ariadne glances between the two of them and their hands regrettably. “Did I interrupt something?”  
  
Arthur tries not to resent her for it.  
  
-

 

The party is at a house, two or three miles away from the school. Ariadne, Mal, Cobb and Yusuf pile themselves in the backseat of Eames’ car, so cramped that Ariadne ended up sitting in Mal’s lap and Cobb and Yusuf looked absolutely giddy. The ride is full of bad music and Eames glancing at Arthur every little bit, smirking and gesturing to Mal and Cobb in the rearview mirror.  
  
It doesn't take Arthur long to catch on. Mal is leaning over Ariadne and laughing with her hand on Cobb’s arm. Before they enter the house, he asks Cobb to borrow his cell phone.  
  
“What for?” Cobb is squinting at him.  
  
Arthur rolls his jacket onto his shoulders, “I don’t have battery.”  
  
“Who’re you going to call? Everyone you know is right here.”  
  
Mal, standing behind him, snorts in laughter. She’s got her hand on his shoulder, leading him into the house and that’s what gets Cobb to toss him the phone. Yusuf and Ariadne disappear into the house, Mal and Cobb following after them.  
  
Arthur stays back, dialing the phone. Eames leans against the car, nodding in askance. Arthur shakes his head, listening to the phone ring on the other line. It rings a few more times and then someone answers. “Hello?”  
  
“Hey, Celeste. It’s Cobb.”  
  
“Dom, hey baby. “  
  
Arthur resists the laughter and clears his throat, “Hey, are you busy?”  
  
“Not at all. What’s up?”  
  
“Listen, I think we should break up.”  
  
Eames’ eyebrows shoot up into his hair and he starts laughing quietly. Arthur restrains a smile and cuts off the girl babbling on the other end. “I know it hasn’t been that long, Celeste. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and it’s just not going to work out. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”  
  
“Is this a joke?” she’s shrieking into Arthur’s ear.  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes, “It’s not a joke, Celeste. I’m sorry. Don’t call me again.”  
  
Arthur hangs up and pockets the phone, grinning at Eames. He nods at the house, asking whether or not they should go in. Eames laughs and shakes his head in approval.  
  
The party is a living, breathing mass inside the house. Everywhere are students from their school, drinking and humping and grinding on the dance floor, in closets, on the couches. It only takes thirty seconds for the group to get separated in the tidal wave. Yusuf and Ariadne get lost in the crowd, heading towards the kitchen. Mal and Cobb disappear in the people on the dance floor and Eames pulls Arthur out of the breathing mess to a porch.  
  
Somewhere inside the mess, he managed to grab a pair of beers.  They sip them on the balcony and Eames asks Arthur what the call was about.  
  
Arthur shrugs, “I’ve always kind of made it my personal objective to keep Cobb an honest man. Between getting away from Mal and grilling me about how dinner went, he won’t have time to care about Celeste. And I know that he doesn’t. Not with how he’s looking at Mal.”  
  
Eames nods, sipping his bear. Behind him, there is a pounding techno beat that shakes the house. “Is he your brother or something?”  
  
Arthur laughs, leaning over the balcony railing, with his forearms rested on it. “No, he’s just an old friend.”  
  
Eames stands next to him, fingering the mouth of the bottle, loosely. “Oh, alright then. “  
  
Arthur glances over his shoulder and squints at the  bright light that frames Eames. From inside the house, someone has started a strobe light. In between the flashes, Arthur quirks his head, “Are you blond?”  
  
"No,"Eames grimaces and runs a hand through his hair, self-consciously. “I mean, I am, but not naturally. It’s all the chlorine from the pool. I despise it. “  
  
Arthur looks at him like he’s grown a second head,  “Why are you spending so much time in a pool?”  
  
Eames glances up at him, “I’m on the swim team.”  
  
Arthur turns, raising an eyebrow, “You’re on the--what?”  
  
Eames looks away, blushing slightly. “I’m on the swim team. At the Academy.” Then adds quickly, as if to restore his cred, “And the rugby.”  
  
Arthur is even more shocked, “You actually go there?”  
  
“Did you think I didn’t?” A thought strikes Eames and he continues, “Did you think that I was just some creep hanging around your school?”  
  
Arthur smirked, a little embarrassed. “Well, that and sold drugs. I mean.”  
  
Eames guffawed at him, moving to lean over the railing next to him. “So you agreed to a date with a creepy old guy that hangs around your school and sells drugs?”  
  
“I didn’t actually agree to it, you rolled the corporeal die or whatever,” Arthur rolled his eyes.  
  
“Well, it’s been quite a long night and I haven’t heard a complaint,” Eames prompts.  
  
Arthur glances at him, only slightly because the strobe light behind him is unreasonably bright, “I suppose not.”  
  
A beat passes between them in silence, or as silent as it could get with the yawning house bursting open with bass and treble. Eames grins down at his hands and Arthur pretends not to notice. After another beat, Eames bumps his shoulder against Arthur’s. Arthur glances at him again, bottle halfway to his lips. “What is it?”  
  
Eames nods towards the house, “Dance with me.”  
  
Arthur looks at him now that the strobe light has been turned off but is distracted by something just inside the house. He nods his head in direction of the house, “You mean like them?”  
  
Eames stands and looks into the building. Through the glass doors of the porch, Mal and Dom are at the edge of the crowd, grinding chest to chest, foreheads stacked against each other. Mal is laughing coyly and Dom looks ravenous. Their beat is off but at the rate they’re going--Mal’s leg wrapped around Dom’s, pulling him into her space, Dom’s hands riding high on her thigh and low on her back, guiding their juke--Arthur thinks the least of their worries is the music. Watching them, he finds himself a bit breathless.  
  
“Well,” Eames announces, clearing his throat. “How long have they known each other?”  
  
Arthur brings himself back to the porch, “An hour, or two, give or take.”  
  
Eames looks vaguely impressed, “Your friend is fast. Granted, so is Mal.”  
  
Arthur shakes his head in disapproval but laughs anyway. Eames turns back to him and takes Arthur’s beer, setting down on the railing next to his own. “C’mon, then. Let’s dance.”  
  
“I’m not dancing like that with you.” Arthur straightens, pocketing his hands.  
  
“Ah, the ever present guard.” Eames grabs Arthur’s wrist, slipping his fingers into the pocket to reach, “Just one dance. I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Well, I’ll be gentle at least. Or...” he hesitates, “do you not know how to?”  
  
Arthur rolls his hand off his wrist, “I can dance,  I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”  
  
“How far would we be without a multitude of bad ideas in this world?”  
  
Arthur looks away, considering it. "Anywhere between far and farther."  
  
“Oh, c’mon. One dance, Arthur,” and then he’s tugging him inside the house. “And I think you’ll recall that resistance is futile.”  
  
The push through the crowd, swallowing them whole and find a space near the center. Arthur objects, talking loudly in Eames’ ear. Eames shakes his head and replies only by raising a finger, and mouthing, “One.” As in one dance.    
  
“One song,” Arthur compromises. Techno beats like this are usually short and this song is already halfway through.  
  
Eames shrugs but grins, “Alright.”  
  
People around them bend to make space and Arthur lets Eames pull himself against him. His hands appear low at Arthur’s hips and his breath is hot at his neck. Somewhere between Eames, pressed against his waist and the beat pounding in his chest, one song becomes three.  
  
The first is a slow beat, compared to the others. They move in rigid swings against each other but as the tempo picks up, Eames’ rolls against him and Arthur was never one to step down from a challenge. There’s nothing particularly attractive about watching the people in front of him dance as he pushes against Eames, but the others watch them with shameless leers. It only progresses as the second song starts in, somewhere blurred in between their skin. It’s demanding and quick but Eames moves against him in patient, passive moves.  
  
Arthur tells himself that it’s misplaced paranoia that makes him turn around to face Eames while they dance, but he knows it’s the lack of real contact. The songs had blurred--probably a mix, Arthur decides he should have suspected that at a house party--and he stops moving to turn and face him, pushing a leg between his knees and wrapping his arm around the other’s neck. Eames turns into him, his hands reach higher on his hips, “Arthur--”  
  
“Shut up.” Arthur cuts off his warning, “It’s one dance.”  
  
There’s bass in his ears, only the noise of crowd and  beating down into his chest and Eames is moving in ripples, pulsing with motion and sweat and breath. Arthur can feel the scratch of Eames’ hands dry at his hips, the beads of sweat running on the inside hollow of his throat. Eames is so close and solid and he moves to press his forehead against Arthur’s, clutching his skin. Arthur can’t so much hear the music as he can feel it. He can’t hear the crowd or the yawning house, only his breathing and the steady rustle of their clothes as they move in beat. And Eames. He can feel the weight of Eames against his chest, moving slowly, breathing into the curve of Arthur’s neck and touching the space between his waistband and his shirt, gently at least.  
  
He only has a split second of the chill running down his back and the dizziness of being pulled out Eames’ gravitational pull. “Arthur!”  
  
The hand that pulled him away is small and lovely and Arthur turns to meet Mal with unfocused eyes and she’s shouting over the music but it sounds worse than it should.  Over the music he can only pick out a few words, and then she’s got her hand around his wrist and tugs him through the crowd. They don’t part for her and Arthur is disoriented enough without stumbling through people until they’re outside of the house.  
  
When they reach the front lawn, Arthur doesn’t need her to explain anymore because the ring of students chanting in tongues is pretty tell-tale. Arthur pushes through the circle with a sudden rage that they part for him. But when he gets too the center, he realizes he’s too late. Cobb is landing his final punch on Fischer’s angel face and standing up when Arthur reaches them.  
  
“Dom, what are you doing?” Mal stumbled out of the crowd and rushes to him, panicked.  
  
Cobb is seething with anger when he meets Arthur’s eyes and Arthur’s own resolve softens, understanding Dom’s intentions. Cobb reaches down all of a sudden and picks something off the ground. It’s Arthur’s jacket, that he left at Fischer’s. He pulls it on and then walks to stand in front of Arthur.  
  
He’s opening his mouth to speak when Arthur reaches out and puts his hand on Dom’s ribs, where the gauze is soaked through. Arthur sets his jaw, watching Cobb visibly bite the inside of his cheek, and clenches his fingers around the bandage, wrinkling the soiled material between his fingers. “You tore it open, asshole.”  
  
Dom’s gaze is dark, there’s no real light out here but it cuts to Arthur without malice, “You are my brother. And I would anything do for you, even if it means providing violence on your behalf,” then his gaze turns behind Arthur, “Is that understood.”  
  
Arthur glances behind him to find Eames there, eyebrows raised as though amused. But instead of provoking anything, he answers in the least sarcastic way he can manage, “Yes, sir.”  
  
Yusuf and Ariadne appear and break the silence, dismissively. “Let’s get out of here before things get worse.”  
  
Arthur nods, “Yes, lets.” He throws Yusuf a pleading look and he knows Yusuf gets it because he glances at Arthur’s hand on Dom’s ribs and Mal, standing dangerously close. Yusuf grabs Ariadne and Mal and walks off with them, arms thrown over each of their shoulders.  
  
When they’re out of ear shot, roaring in laughter, Arthur shoves Dom with the palm of his free hand. Dom wavers but doesn’t move too much. “Take my jacket off, you’re going to get blood all over it.  Eames, go start the car and look for a anything that might stop the bleeding.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
Arthur sighs, impatiently. “Cobb is injured. Very seriously injured and chose to not give a shit in favor of punching Fischer in the face a few times.”  
  
Cobb, the sick fuck, grins proudly, "I went for the ribs.”  
  
Arthur scowls, tentatively removing his hand from Cobb’s shirt.  He turns around and shows it to Eames, but doesn’t meet his gaze, there’s blood on his hand and it’s Cobb’s,  “Look, he’s got a serious injury. Please, now, get to the car and try to find something that will control the bleeding. Let’s try to keep this quiet, okay? There is no reason for the girls to find out, they might panic. Yusuf knows but he hasn’t offered any real help, which is fine. I don’t need help, Cobb does. I just need something to stop the bleeding and then I need you to take me home. Actually, I m--”  
  
“Arthur, stop.” Eames cuts him off, gripping his shoulders.  
  
Arthur snaps his gaze up and tries not to look put off. He should have expected that Cobb would come along to the party if they were going with other people, he should have expected Cobb to get violent after what Arthur told him about Fischer, he should have. “Can you stop for a minute?”  
  
“What is it?” he doesn’t mean to snap but it’s better than his voice cracking and that’s all he has to say for himself.  
  
“I have a first aid kit at the cabin,  full of good equipment. Yusuf can get your friend some pain killers and Mal can stitch him up. Besides, worse comes to worse, I can call in a favor with some powerful people.”  
  
Arthur sets his jaw, “No, no, I don’t need you to do that. I don’t need--”  
  
“I don’t care what you need, I want to do it.” Eames voice is final and snaps Arthur out of his haze. Thirty seconds ago he was dancing with Eames and now he’s got Dom’s blood in his hands, and Eames brings him back into alignment. Arthur meets his eyes and remembers what needs to be done.  
  
He nods curtly, “Okay. Bring the car around the front and ask Yusuf to brief Mal. We’ll need to go straight to the cabin.”  
  
Eames’ mouth flickers a smile but then he’s gone, following orders. Arthur turns back to Dom and glares at him, “That’s three shirts you’ve ruined today.”  
  
-  
  
Mal, as it turns out, has experience stitching wounds closed. It’s not as alarming as it is disconcerting, at least to Arthur and Cobb. When asked, Eames refuses to elaborate where this skill came from and Mal just smiles a little Mona Lisa smile. Yusuf continues his tight-lipped campaign and Ariadne shudders like she might puke again. Mal moves the needle with a vulgar precision, only wincing in sympathetic pain. Cobb grits his teeth and sets his jaw every time that the needle sinks into his skin, but offers no other signs of pain.  
  
Usually, whenever Arthur stitches Cobb up, he screams and writhes and punches the nearest object--usually Nash--but this time it’s Mal doing it. Arthur suspects that Dom is sucking it up like a good little patient because it’s Mal.  Granted, Arthur’s only ever stitched Cobb up twice.  
  
But then, after a bit, Cobb relaxes. Arthur is pretty sure it has more to do with the Valium that Yusuf brought him, but it could just as easily be the way Mal is palming the flat planes of his stomach. It’s not until that Mal’s knuckles scrape at the top of Cobb’s belly button that Arthur decides to leave them to it.  
  
They were watching Mal stitch him up, sprawled on the couches in the basement of the cabin. Yusuf had disappeared post-Valium delivery with Ariadne. Eames was sitting at the base of the stairs, wringing a white rag in his hands to get the blood off. Arthur has long since conceded in the battle against it, the gray shirt he's wearing is officially ruined. He just adds it to Cobb’s debt.  
  
The ride over had been pretty rough, Eames had cut through a path in the woods to reach the cabin faster and they did, but it was messy and turbulent. It was also pretty nerve-wrecking. Ariadne was having a fit in the back with Yusuf trying to calm her down and Mal was trying to clot the blood with Cobb’s shirt and Arthur was just trying to keep his head steady while Eames sped through the streets, then through rough terrain.  
  
Arthur makes his way over and sits down next to Eames, sighing. Eames glances over at him for a second and then continues what he’s doing. After a few more wrings, he admits defeat and tosses the rag off to the side. Arthur bumps his shoulder and starts in with his apology, “I’m sorry about this.”  
  
Eames looks over at him  now and gives him a long-suffering sigh. “I told you, I wanted to to do this for you.”  
  
Arthur shrugs, “That doesn’t change that you didn’t have to.”  
  
Eames looks off for a bit, thinking and then says, “I’ll tell you what. Accompany me to the Valentine’s Dance next week and we’ll call it even.”  
  
Arthur raises an eyebrow, “You want me to go where with you?”  
  
Eames grins, “Valentine’s dance. It’s here, at the Academy.”  
  
Arthur’s brow furrows, “Why do you want to go to a high school dance?”  
  
Eames’ grin turns wicked, “To parade you around on my arm, of course. And so I can take you back behind the school and--”  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
Arthur shoots up, immediately alarmed, “What is it?”  
  
Mal turns to face them, “No, it’s nothing too bad, I just, I need more iodine.”  
  
Cobb nudges her with his knee so quickly, Arthur almost misses it. As if an afterthought, Mal adds, “And gauze tape,” she is nudged again, “And gauze.”  
  
Eames, having not caught Cobb’s encouragement, stands and brushes dirt off his slacks, “Alright, I’ll head to the nearest drugstore. Arthur?”  
  
Cobb cuts in here, nudging Mal to do the same, “Yeah, yeah, take Arthur.”  
  
Arthur turns to him with a scowl and a raised eyebrow as if to say _Did you really just miss that?_  Eames looks confused, “What?”  
  
Arthur turns his expression to Mal who smiles in a coquette manner. Cobb looks away from him, inspecting the work of the stitches. Arthur sighs, “Alright, let’s go. Where’s the nearest store?”  
  
Eames shrugs, “Cutting through the forest, four or five kilometers. We’ll need a change of clothes, though. Or, at least you will.”  
  
“Forget it, I’ll stay in the car and you’ll get the stuff.”  
  
“Alright,” Eames grabs his keys from the coffee table next to Mal’s equipment. He kisses her cheeks and whispers something to her in French that makes her blush.  
  
Eames moves back to Arthur and they ascend. In the car, Arthur asks what Eames whispered to her. Eames smiles at the windshield and says, “I told her to mind his stitches when they start shagging.”  
  
Arthur looks out through the trees in the forest to hide his laughter.The terrain gets rough towards the edge of the clearing and Eames gets quiet, focusing. When they reach the road, Arthur leans back and smells leather. He glances at Eames who is gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.  
  
“Something on your mind, dear?” Arthur prompts playfully.  
  
Eames bursts into laughter, glancing at Arthur with bright eyes. “I never can tell what to expect from you. One minute you’re looking at me with disdain and then you say I have serious--what was it?--oh, dick sucking lips.”  
  
Arthur pointedly doesn’t laugh, “I thought I dreamt that.”  
  
Eames smiles, “You thought I was a dream?”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes, “That’s not what I said.”  
  
Eames’ grin doesn’t falter a bit, “But it’s what you meant.”  
  
Sinking into the leather, he says, “Seriously, what’s the matter? Besides the fact that your date was hijacked.”  
  
Eames’ smile falters this time, “Nothing, just. Have you considered the possibility that your friend may need a transfusion? He’s bleeding pretty badly--”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur warns, the humor is gone from his voice.  
  
“Arthur, he could need it.”  
  
“I know, Eames, jeez. He’s just going to have to suck it up. Rub some dirt in it. I know Cobb, he’ll handle it just fine.”  
  
Eames is silent for for a beat, then starts again. “I told you, I could have him properly taken care of.”  
  
“Eames, no.”  
  
“Why _not_ , darling?” He’s frustrated now and Arthur would like nothing more than to drop the subject.  
  
“I already owe you enough. You don’t have to keep doing me favors.”  
  
“It can be a gift.”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes, and when he speaks, it’s with finality. This conversation is over, “It can’t, Eames. No.”  
  
Eames slows to stop at a red light and looks over at Arthur, glaring out the window. “Very well. You win.”    
  
He reaches out to cup Arthur’s jaw and when Arthur turns into his hand to scold him, he pulls back as if stung. “What the fuck, Arthur?”  
  
Arthur scowls anyway, as Eames starts in with a string of curse words and an overbearing rant about when it is appropriate to tell your date you have fever. A very high fever, at that. The rest of the car ride zooms by, Eames is suddenly revitalized by Arthur’s condition. He drags him out of the car and into the store. “Eames, I’m fine, this is seriously unnecessary. You’re being ridiculous.”  
  
His protests fall on deaf ears, Eames is already whistling for the pharmaceutical attendant. They’re standing in the cold and flu aisle and Eames wont let his grip falter for a bit around Arthur’s wrist. He whistles again, sharper. “Oi! Can I get some attendance here? Paying customer and all, let’s hurry it up.”  
  
Arthur rugs on his grip experimentally and isn’t surprised to find it practically deadlocked. “Eames, don’t make a scene. It’s not enough that I’m covered in blood?”  
  
Eames turns and smiles at him. “You’re right. I’m sorry, where are my manners? Here, take my jacket. Zip it up and you’ll be as good as new.”  
  
Arthur almost objects,  because he’s not a fucking girl for Eames to always be giving him his jacket, but he’d rather not have someone call the cops on him or something. He takes the jacket and Eames only lets his hand slip long enough for them to maneuver the zipper. Just in time, a very harassed-looking pharmaceutical attendant comes storming down the aisle. Her face splits into a fake cheery grin and she only glances at them before she starts, “May I help you, sirs?”  
  
Eames harasses her into giving them her expert medical opinion ( _What university did you attend? John Hopkins, I hope. No? Pity. I’m sure they would have liked you, you’re so charming._ ) Then he subsequently insults her hair and her shoes and her job before he asks her to bugger off, please. She glares at him for a second, like she’s going to fight back, but then thinks better of it. She storms off and mutters under breath instead.  
  
Eames grins at her and then slips his hand into Arthur’s, leading him down the aisles. A few people toss them unfocused looks and a thought strikes Arthur. He speaks before he can think better of it, “Fischer thinks we’re fucking.”  
  
Eames gives him a half-glance and a snort, turning into the First Aid kit aisle. In his other hand, there’s a bottle of some Robitussin or some nonsense like that. “Fischer can fuck a duck.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t smile, “That’s not my point. Fischer said that everyone knows we are fucking. That we fucked.”  
  
Eames looks at Arthur, sparing him attention. “Arthur, I think you’ll find that Fischer is an obnoxious cunt and everything he says is bullshit. What comes out of his mouth isn’t exactly credible evidence. What are you doing hanging around Fischer, anyway?”  
  
Arthur ignores him, “Why do people think that?” He pulls his hand out of Eames’ grip.  
  
Eames sighs, turning back to him, pocketing his now free hand. “I don’t bloody well know, do I? I can’t control what people think they know.”  
  
Arthur takes a step back, “Eames, what happened last Friday?”  
  
“What, don’t you remember?”  
  
Arthur glances away and back to Eames, setting his jaw. “No, I don’t.”  
  
Eames’ expression turns hard suddenly. “Nothing happened, Arthur. I didn’t take advantage of you, if you really don’t remember. We danced, we talked on the pier, you tempted the hell of me in those slacks. I went inside and sent Yusuf to collect you. Jesus Christ. I’m a lot of things, Arthur, but rapist is not fucking one of them.”  
  
Arthur steels his face, “That’s not what I said.”  
  
Eames turns away from him and starts down the aisle. “But it’s what you meant.” He disappears, turning into another aisle and Arthur just stand there, dumbfounded.  
  
He grabs his phone and speed dials Yusuf. When he answers, Arthur automatically feels guilty for assuming Yusuf wouldn’t tell him something like that happened.“--it’s Arthur. What is it?”  
  
“Yusuf, I--uh, why are you out of breath?”  
  
Yusuf laughs, short and clipped and there’s a voice on the other line. “No reason, what’s the matter?”  
  
“Hey, uh, did anything happen last Friday?”  
  
"What? Are you alright?”  
  
“I’m fine, I just can’t remember much and Eames said something--I just need to know what happened last Friday.”  
  
“Oh, uh. Nothing. I found you on the pier, you asked me if I had any quarters on me for the pinball machine and I decided to take you home. You tried to get me to play soccer. And climb a tree. And harmonize a Whitney Houston song. Uh, then you kinda passed out. It was all very eventful.”  
  
“I meant between me and Eames.”  
  
“Oh. He said you looked really good in those slacks. Something about your neck--” more voices on the other line, “But that’s it. Is that all?”  
  
Through his blush and shame, all Arthur says is “Yeah,” and Yusuf hangs up.  
  
It takes him twelve minutes to find Eames. He’s in the parking lot, leaning against the car and smoking a cigarette. It smells dull and heavy and Eames sees Arthur but doesn’t spare him a second glance. For a minute, they stand there and Arthur feels like an asshole until Eames talks, “You missed it.”  
  
“What did I miss?”  
  
Eames brings up his other hand with the carton of cold and flu medicine. “I stormed out without paying for this.”  
  
Arthur laughs, the coil in his throat is unraveling. “No one stopped you?”  
  
Eames scoffs, flicking ash off his cigarette. “There are those who tried.”  
  
Arthur laughs again, lighter than before but it’s desperate and sounds wrong in his throat. “Listen, I, uh.”  
  
Eames turns now, eyebrows raised, expecting a full apology and Arthur delivers. “I’m sorry I implemented that you weren’t trustworthy. I don’t know why I let Fischer get the better of me and I apologize, truly. I just--It’s just that... I don’t know you very well and y’know, it _is_ called the date rape drug.”  
  
Eames chuckles, breathing in smoke through his lips. He nods like he’s agreeing then steps forward and opens his arms for Arthur’s embrace. Arthur narrows his eyes, feeling ridiculous for being wary of Eames. This embrace is a peace offering in nature.  
  
He slides his hands over Eames’ shoulder blades in the hug and doesn’t think about that leather smell and the nicotine that suddenly smells better than his crappy cigarettes. Eames’ weight against him relaxes the knots in his stomach. When they break apart, Eames looks around nervously and says, “Let’s get out of here, there might be police cars racing to apprehend me as we speak.”  
  
Arthur laughs but he gets in the car and they’re backing out of the space when Eames throws a ridiculously shy smile in his direction and asks, “So was that a yes on the Valentine’s Dance?”  
  
Arthur fails to suppress his stupid, schoolgirl blush but answers with a steady voice and pretends not to notice the twisting glee in Eames’ face, “Yeah.”  
  
-  
  
Cobb leaves. He gets dressed in the shadows and crawls out of Arthur’s dorm at one in the morning. He almost breaks his leg climbing down the stairs in the dark. He hops in the car he brought with him, stolen from a nearby hardware store and drives. Arthur’s first aid kit rests on the passenger seat. He guns the car down desolate roads at 60 and drives into a field. He sets the car on fire and then jumps into Nash’s car. They had agreed to meet there. Nash doesn’t ask why Cobb deems it necessary to set it on fire.  
  
When the sun rises, Arthur finds a note on the pillow next to him.  
  
 _I know, I know. It’s entirely my fault. I’ll see you next week._

_C_

  
He calls Cobb and doesn’t get an answer. He calls Nash and someone answers but there’s a scuffle on the line and then it goes dead. He glances at the bed next to him and finds Yusuf is gone, as he has been all weekend, working. Or so he says. Arthur turns his phone off and rolls over to sleep. If Cobb wants to reach him, now he can’t.  
  
Regardless, Arthur has Young Entrepreneurs of America club in half an hour and his alarm rings to remind him of such. He gets up and stumbles into the shower.  He changes and heads for YEA and flips his key chain through his fingers. He strolls through the cafeteria and fingers a muffin on his way to class.  
  
At the top of the stairs, outside of the classroom, he finds Mal leaning against the wall. Her hair is straight today, sleek over the buttons at the top of her uniform shirt. She’s got her eyes closed but when he leans against the wall next to her, she glances at him and closes her eyes again. He swallows a mouthful of muffin then awkwardly fits an arm around her shoulder. She opens her eyes, lashes fluttering, smiling in that way she always does.  
  
“He does that a lot, doesn’t he?”  
  
Arthur shrugs, “When he thinks he’s overstayed his welcome.”  
  
“Are you always here to pick up the pieces?” Mal slips her fingers through his hand hanging open at her shoulder.  
  
Arthur bites the muffin, chewing for time. “Only when the pieces are beautiful French girls.”  
  
Mal chuckles, leaning back into his arm. “Does that happen often?”  
  
She’s prying, Arthur knows but there’s no real harm or insecurity behind it. He chews some more and says, “No. Only once before. And that time I was picking up his pieces not hers. And some asshole’s teeth off his lawn.”  
  
Mal quirks a curious eyebrow and Arthur shrugs, “Easy girl with a jealous ex-boyfriend. And me, providing violence on Cobb’s behalf. Or, my brother’s behalf apparently.”  
  
Mal smiles, “You know, Fischer was talking like a big man that night. I would have punched him, too, if he was talking like that about my brother.”  
  
“Really?” Arthur laughs, slipping his arm out to manhandle the muffin with both hands. “Would you have broken his nose and fractured his ribs, too? Hospitalize the bastard? Maybe shatter his jaw?”  
  
“The worse Dom did was fracture his nose and bruise a few ribs.” She scrunches her nose in defense, “Besides, Fischer was asking for it.”  
  
Arthur fingers the muffin a bit before pulling a piece off and chewing it. “Yeah, I know. Cobb already fed me the story. It doesn’t exactly excuse assault and battery, but hey,” he gestures to the muffin, ”Want some?”  
  
Mal reaches over and plucks a piece off his muffin. Before it reaches her mouth, she stops, “Does this have nuts in it?”  
  
Arthur nods, “It’s banana nut.”  
  
Mal’s shoulders droop and she drops what she was holding back in his palm, “Nevermind then, I’m allergic.”  
  
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. I’ll throw it out, it’s not that good anyway.”  
  
Mal rolls her eyes at him, “Don’t. Finish it, I already ate breakfast.”  
  
Arthur shakes his head, crossing the hall to toss it in a nearby waste basket. “No, I don’t really want it. We should probably head inside anyway.”  
  
As if on cue, the door opens and Ariadne sticks her head out, “Hey Mal--oh, hi, Arthur. Uh, you guys should probably get in here. I’m not liable for my actions if I’m the only one beating Fischer into the ground.”  
  
Arthur raises an eyebrow but Mal shrugs, extending her hand to lead them into the classroom. He pulls her hand around his waist and throws another around her shoulders. Mal leans into him and he can smell mint with touches of lavender and something else he can’t place, but it doesn’t bother him. Mal is the poster child for mystery if Arthur’s ever seen one.  
  
The meeting passes with minimal argument which is earnestly unexpected with Fischer making dangerous jokes in the back. Instead of sticking around for it, Mal, Ariadne and Arthur slip out as quick as possible. Mal has one strike and Ariadne has two. At three, they are forbidden from co-ed clubs and grounded to their side of the lake. Arthur watches them cross the official bridge over the lake and grits his teeth for first period.  
  
-  
  
It’s only been a couple of hours without Mal or Ariadne to distract him when Arthur feels like ripping someones lungs out. He’s been to four classes but Fischer is in three of those. He only has three classes left, but Fischer is in two of those, too. And if Arthur has to hear one more passive aggressive remark, he’s going to lose his shit.  
  
Instead of going to lunch, he heads to the back of the school to smoke. Yusuf tipped him off that this was a good spot to get away with it, if he really wanted to risk it and Arthur really does.  
  
He throws his bag to a nearby spot and lights up. His cigarette today is menthol and they’re his fucking favorite. He closes his eyes and exhales, the smoke blows across and smells thick and strong. His shoulder hunch subconsciously and he leans back into a body.  
  
“Hello, gorgeous.”  
  
Arthur jumps away from the voice, right in his ear, hands twitching for a weapon. (Arthur likes knives. They’re personal and sharp and feel smooth and powerful under his hand. They take skill. They take class to handle appropriately. They make Arthur dizzy with excitement.)  
  
He turns and finds Eames behind him, smirking lightly with a cigarette dangling between his lips. His shoulders sag again and he shoves Eames with the open palm of his hand. “Fucking bastard.”  
  
Smiling, Eames twists Arthur’s hand into his own so they’re clamped together. Arthur pulls away, annoyed at himself for letting his guard down. He glares at Eames and pulls his hand back again only to be met with equal force and no success. Arthur huffs and goes back to his cigarette.  
  
He flicks ash off the end and inhales, instantly distracted from Eames’ shenanigans. The grip on his hand opens and Eames slots their fingers together, threading them. “Hey.”  
  
Arthur turns and Eames’ face has lost all humor. His voice is quiet and tentative and it disconcerts Arthur but he blames that on the nicotine rush. “Is this not alright?”  
  
Eames is frowning, searching Arthur’s face for conformation; for approval. He brings their hands up to emphasize his query, “Is this not alright with you?”  
  
Arthur gets it now and it struck by the sheer irony of the question. He smiles a little, mostly to himself. “You’re seriously going to ask me if it’s okay when you’ve been holding my hand on your own accord for days now?”  
  
Eames breaks into a slow grin, “I suppose you’re right.”  
  
His grip slacked further--as though he’s convinced Arthur won’t slip right out--and their hands drop between them. Eames’ thumb roams over his knuckles and Arthur smokes to hide the genuine smile.  
  
-  
  
It becomes a routine of sorts. Everyone plays a part. Arthur wakes up and Yusuf is gone. Arthur gets dressed and Cobb doesn’t answer his phone. Arthur goes to a club meeting and Ariadne titters happily. Arthur goes to the Discipline Office and Mal is talking herself out of trouble with an alarming ease. Arthur goes behind the school and Eames offers him a cigarette.  
  
They smoke and the Administration never seems to notice. Eames says people used to come back here all the time to smoke but it stopped after a while and soon, he was smoking alone. He has no clue why, really. Arthur doubts as much.  
  
They smoke and swear that one day, they’ll quit. They smoke and walk around the school. Or just stand and talk, more or less. They start grinning at each other in hallways. Eames is late to class to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s dimples. Arthur isn’t late but he’s winded every once in a while.  Yusuf, in his post-lunch AP Chemistry class pretends--albeit, unconvincingly--not to notice.  
  
Arthur realizes they’ve become friends.  
  
One day, Eames is pissed. Arthur can see it in how he’s frowning and flexing his fingers, like he wants to hit something. He can see it but all he can think to do is share his cigarette. They sit on the ground and Arthur lets him slip an arms around his waist. Then Arthur realizes they’ve become more.  
  
It’s only been a couple of days but that’s it. Arthur only needed a time around Eames to relax. Familiarize himself with the territory. Then Arthur lets Eames hold him against the brick wall and press first kisses to his open mouth, hot and long.  
  
It happens once and after deliberation, Arthur decides he likes it. Very much, even. He takes the initiative to make sure it happens again.  
  
-  
  
Arthur pulls him in for a kiss and he pushes Eames against the wall. He forgets all about his cigarette and tastes the nicotine on Eames’ tongue, instead. They move in slow concentration, kissing with ease. It’s not perfect but mostly organized. Eames’ lips are like the barrel of a gun, dangerously inviting. Arthur sucks and moves in wet practiced waves. They’ve got plenty of time.  
  
When Arthur needs to breathe, he noses Eames’ cheek and sucks lightly on his jaw. He leaves a mark, high on his neck. It’s soft enough that it will fade within a few hours but high enough that a collared shirt won’t hide it.  
  
Before they know it, the bell rings and under any other circumstance, Arthur would stay but he has an important test next period. He kisses Eames and almost gets lost in the heat. Winded, he barely breathes against his mouth when Eames puts a hand on his sternum and pushes him back. He clears his throat and swallows, “You, uh, have a test.”  
  
It’s only a kind of relevant test and Arthur kisses him again. It starts simple but opens into something darker until he’s breathing heavy against him with urgency, and there’s that heat pulling at his stomach, “My grade can take a hit.”  
  
Eames doesn’t reply, pressing his tongue against Arthur’s in a tentative slide. He reaches the roof of Arthur’s mouth and licks lightly and the late bell rings. Arthur breaks off and swears, throwing his crappy cigarette away and reaching for his messenger bag on the floor.  
  
He’s moving to leave and Eames pulls his tie in for a last kiss.  
  
Arthur runs to class and uses that as an excuse for being winded. \  
  
-  
  
Regardless of any exclusivity, Arthur left a mark on Eames and forgot that news travels pretty fast. By the time Arthur gets to debate that Friday, Ariadne is jumping up and down with joy. Arthur slides into his chair next to her and tries not to grin every time she tells him something mildly related to Eames. Or something he related to Eames in his head.  
  
After debate team adjourns, Arthur and Ariadne head to the library with their new debate topic. Ariadne turns out to be an extremely competent partner, with the exception that they can’t go back to each other’s dorms. Yusuf is distracting for Ariadne and Mal is just distracting for anyone with eyes.  
  
They camp out at the library until late and the librarian kicks them out. They skipped dinner so Ariadne complains but Arthur makes it up to her by sneaking her into their room. She’s a surprisingly good climber and beams proudly when she lands inside.  
  
They sit on the floor with a movie on the TV Yusuf snuck in and Ariadne falls asleep on Yusuf’s shoulder. They wake her and she changes into a pair of Arthur’s pajama pants. Yusuf laughs, “It’s ridiculous that your clothes fit her. You need to eat more often, man.”  
  
Exhausted from a particularly exhausting day, Arthur rolls over and just falls asleep. His fever has gone down to a regular temperature over the course of week, which is why it surprises him when he finds himself walking through the desert, burning in the heat.  
  
The sun is beating down on his back and the blood is running and squelching and the bones on his feet are cracking and breaking with pressure. It aches and hurts but he keeps walking, parched with cracked lips. He reaches the end of the road and his skin is ripping open, the ocean’s mist feels like heaven with pockets of fresh air in the vortex stench of gore. The jagged edges of the cliff drop off and Arthur thinks he’s going to try and head back and see what happens.  
  
As he’s stepping back, the hand reaches out and clambers up. The being is smaller than before, he smells like leather and when he reaches out to touch Arthur, it’s intimate. A hand pulls his clothes off to touch his skin. The being is gentle in his touches, soothing almost and Arthur can’t help arch into it. The blood smears in places but he’s not freezing or burning him. It’s like mercy.  
  
The being tracks his hands, cool with sweat, all across Arthur’s back and the blisters start closing, clearing away. The being heals every inch of skin he can reach, then holds Arthur’s wrist with loose coercion. At the edge of the cliff, the ocean roars closer than ever and the mist is on his skin now, threading through his hair in wisps of air. Their hands are clasped together loosely and the being turns to him and asks, “Will you jump with me?”  
  
Arthur wakes with a start, scrambling for a weapon. (The school probably has a policy against weapons but Arthur has had a switchblade tucked into his pillowcase since he was 12 and going to a strange place where he has to sleep next to people he doesn’t know wasn’t exactly motive to stop doing so, zero tolerance policies aside.)  
  
He reaches for it but stops when he realizes it’s Ariadne, waking him to say goodbye because she has to sneak back across the lake. It’s just getting light outside but nobody will be awake yet, it’s Saturday. Arthur nods and kisses her cheek and waves to Yusuf, who says he’s going to walk her back to the school. Arthur nods, watching them leave.  
  
They close the window behind them and Arthur relaxes into the bed. The room is quiet and it’s spinning a little. His skin is warm and flushed with arousal. Arthur slides his pajama bottoms just past his thighs and strokes himself slowly, wondering if he should really be doing this, thinking about Eames this way.  
  
But he closes his eyes and sees Eames, with his kiss swollen lips and hooded eyes. He feels the phantom tell-tale heat against his hip. Precome leaks and he spreads it, pursing his lips in concentration. Arthur moves his hands in a slow slide until he’s arching into it and he’s breathing is labored. He thinks of Eames, moaning softly through a kiss. Eames, between his legs, lips wrapped around his cock, wet and red with need. Eames under him, Eames over him, Eames saying his name with breathy revving.  
  
Arthur strokes faster with unsteady hands, heat crawling all over his body and curling his toes. Eames’ hands, touching him everywhere, sliding slick against slapping skin, and he comes with the realization that the being in his dream spoke like a motorcycle cutting through a superhighway. His body tremors as he spills all over his hand and his stomach.  
  
When he can think again, his chest bubbles with laughter and exertion, but twenty minutes later, he gets up to shower and his hands are still shaking.  
  
-  
  
When he’s finished showering, he wraps a towel around his waist and hangs another around his neck. He steps into the room only to leap back in surprise. (Arthur has stopped carrying knives, and one day, he’ll regret that.) Cobb is lying on his bed, lounging like a fucking king, He doesn’t even open his eyes, tossing a light greeting. “Hey, Arthur.”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes at him but grabs some clean clothes and changes in the damp heat of the bathroom. He figures Cobb showed up while he was in the shower and let himself in. When he gets back to him--all of five minutes later--he finds Cobb fast asleep on his bed, laying cautiously on his side.  
  
Arthur throws his wet towel at Cobb’s head but otherwise leaves him be. Cobb is here, at around seven in the morning, meaning he’s been driving for a while so he’s probably exhausted. He’s also here before noon, meaning he needs something from Arthur and judging by the black bag hanging behind the door--with what Arthur can only assume are Cobb’s Sunday Best--he probably wants Arthur to help him pick an outfit. Or stash a dead body. Either or.  
  
Arthur sprawls his work over the desk and buries himself in it. There’s no point in waking Cobb up, he’ll get bitchy. Meanwhile, he’s got homework in AP African History, so he’s got to get to it before he dives into Law and Calculus.  
  
A few hours go by and Yusuf doesn’t come back, which Arthur more or less expected to happen. He finished all but Calculus, but he can leave it for another day. He doesn’t even bother pretending to watch TV, just approaches Cobb. He shakes him awake easily and then doesn’t leave him be until he sits up.  
  
Cobb rubs sleep from his eyes. “What time is it?”  
  
Arthur checks his phone, “Almost noon. What are you doing here? You don’t have a hernia you’d like me to operate on or anything, right?”  
  
“No,” Cobb laughs into a yawn, “I came for the dance thing tonight. I mean, it’s pretty lame and shit, but Mal asked me to go with her. Have you seen her eyes? That mouth? I didn’t stand a chance.”  
  
Arthur moves to sit next to him. “You’re still super fucking early, though.”  
  
Cobb shrugs, “I figured it would be easier for you to choose my outfit ahead of time instead of just picking apart whatever I wear later. I’m fucking dead, though, I was hoping you’d let me sleep while you criticized my fashion sense,” he yawns again and adds as an afterthought, “or lack thereof.”  
  
“Psh, now you care,” Arthur settles his back against the wall, “You never gave a shit before.”  
  
Cobb settles next to him, and glances at Arthur but doesn’t say anything for a beat. When he does, Cobb smiles in with a full, youthful grin that almost scares Arthur.  It’s with a grin that Arthur has only ever seen once before, when Cobb was twelve and holding his new-born baby sister. “Nice job getting rid of Whatsherface.”  
  
In lieu of pressing the real issue, Arthur asks to see how the stitches are healing. Dom’s random praise is explanation enough. Arthur makes note of getting to know Mal more, it appears she’ll be sticking around for a while.  
  
-  
  
They get to the dance a half hour later than they intended. As it turns out, Ariadne and Mal are easily distracted. Cobb ruined the tie of his knot within the first four minutes of putting it on, anyway, so Arthur lets it slide. The gym is decorated with cheap streamers and glowing under the white disco ball hanging from the ceiling. Arthur does his best to not let it offend his sensibilities.  
  
Eleven minutes after they get there, Arthur feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to find Cobb. He raises an eyebrow and Cobb leans into his ear to talk over the music, “Do you have--” _a condom?_ , Arthur almost finishes, “--change for a fifty? I meant to ask you earlier.”  
  
Arthur swallows the thoughts of condoms and shakes his head at Cobb. “No, why?”  
  
He shakes his head, shrugging, “Nevermind. Mal and I are heading out,” he claps Arthur on the back, winking, “Don’t wait up.”  
  
With that, he’s gone, leading Mal by the elbow and pushing through the crowd. He throws Eames a wave on his way out.  
  
Eames reaches Arthur and hands him a drink that smells suspiciously like tequila. he sniffs the contents and then frowns at him. “It’s my civic duty, Arthur. I couldn’t not do it. Punch spiking is like a right of passage," Eames grins, undisturbed, "How long have we been here, by the way?”  
  
“I dunno, something like twelve minutes.”  
  
Eames grins, waving over Yusuf and Ariadne who were dancing to Footloose, of all things. Yusuf’s breathing is light like he’s over the moon, “Alright?”  
  
“They’ve left already,” Eames prompts.  
  
“How long has it been?” Yusuf laughs, reaching into his pockets. He glances at his phone, “Only twelve minutes? Those kids. Ari wins this one, boys.”  
  
They all pass her ten dollars each and Ariadne beams with joy all the way to the dance floor. Once she and Yusuf are gone, Eames leans over and announces, “Y’know that was a utterly biased ruling.”  
  
“I know, “Arthur laughs, “But at least, Yusuf will get laid tonight.”  
  
Eames laughs and leads him to their table. They sit and talk about the test Arthur took in AP Chem and Arthur’s new topic in debate over Dollar Diplomacy during the turn of the century, which turns into a bit of a debate itself. Eames offers the fact that he’s training more often now for indoors water polo and all the smoking they’ve been doing has thoroughly fucked up his lungs. They have about an hour inside before Arthur’s had enough tequila to have had enough small talk. He leans into Eames’ space, breathing lightly against his mouth. “Let’s get out of here.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?” Eames’ eyebrows shoot into his fringe.  
  
Arthur shakes off a wave of self-doubt and what might the rejection or nausea, “C’mon, let’s go back to the cabin and get shitfaced and make out.”  
  
“Just snogging,” Eames smirks, “or will it lead to something more?”    
  
“More is definitely within the realm of possibility.”  
  
Eames leans in and brushes a brisk kiss to Arthur’s mouth, then moves to his ear to talk over the music, “As tempting as that is, you’re pissed--again--and I want to stay.”  
  
“You want to stay here? Instead of making out with me?” Arthur pouts. Maybe he’s had more tequila than he thought.  
  
Eames presses a swift kiss to his cheek, “You’re not sober, pet. Frankly, neither am I. That’s never a good idea--who will maintain your virtue?”  
  
“What virtue?” Arthur snorts. “If anything, it’s more reason for you to get me out of here.”  
  
Closing his eyes, Eames fists his hands on his knees, visibly restraining himself. He’s about to tell Arthur that he’s right and they should forget about this bullshit dance when Ariadne hops over. She throws her arm around Arthur from behind and pulls him away from Eames’ space.  
  
“Arthur,” she starts, “come dance with me! I think Yusuf needs a break.”  
  
Arthur glances up at her and then pointedly watches Eames’ face, replying, “Yeah, sure. There’s nothing here for me anyway.”  
  
Ariadne beams, not noticing the frown Eames’ is shooting at them, and leads him to the floor by the hand. Yusuf takes Arthur’s seat and as they leave, he strikes up a conversation with Eames.  
  
Ariadne dances sweetly, and instead of responding in the same fashion, Arthur slips her body closer to him. She furrows her brow at him. “What are you up to?”  
  
Arthur shrugs, pulling her closer under the guise of talking over the music, “Eames is being a bitch. I want to go already and he wants to stay.”  
  
Ariadne narrows her eyes at him then leans in to smell his breath. Then she laughs, like finally understand a joke. “Oh, I get it. You’re drunk and you want to make Eames jealous.”  
  
Arthur scowls at her suddenly realizing he’s acting like a fourteen year-old girl, and doesn’t understand why. He’s never acted like this before. And all of a sudden, his head is a whole lot clearer than it was four minutes ago. He shrugs it off, switching strategies. “Alright, nevermind, actually. Let’s just dance.”  
  
“No, if you want to, I’ll play along. Yusuf isn’t tired, he’s got a deal to make and that kind of pisses me off. You’d think they’d wait ten fucking minutes so he could dance with his girlfriend,” Ariadne rolls her eyes, exasperated. Then tacks on, “Motherfuckers.”  
  
Arthur smiles at her and shakes his head, “They’d have a fit. Let’s just have fun without them.”  
  
Grinning conspiratorially, Ariadne agrees. It only takes three songs in their over zealous dancing and spinning for Yusuf to appear again. Only now, he’s got a wicked grin on his lips and Eames is at his side. Feeling less like a petulant asshole, Arthur lets Ariadne kiss his cheek before asking to switch. He hands a slightly dizzy Ariadne off to Yusuf and then turns to regard Eames with a raised eyebrow, “To what do I owe this pleasure? Or nuisance, really.”  
  
Eames shrugs, gesturing to the dance floor, “Let’s bust some moves.”  
  
“No, thanks, 1994,” Arthur scolds without bite.  
  
Eames grins, “Come on, let’s dance.”  
  
Arthur leans in to talk over the music. “This is really like a theme for you, isn’t it--the dancing? Have you run out of ideas?”  
  
Eames noses the shell of Arthur’s ear, breathing into and soliciting shivers from Arthur. “Oh, I dunno. You're giving me plenty of ideas now, love.”  
  
Arthur hums nonchalantly, “Too bad you wanted to stay here. The cabin offer has expired, it appears I’ve come into my right mind again,” he pulls back and heads back to their table, when a strong hand wraps around his wrist and stops him in his tracks.  
  
His feet manage to stay mostly composed but he bumps into the blade of Eames’ shoulder. Then there’s that revving in his ear, “I have an offer for you, then.”  
  
Arthur turns to meet him and nods in askance. Eames’ mouth turns into a full, lecherous grin, like he’s already won. “There’s a health classroom just down the hallway outside this gym. It’s locked, but I’m certain we can unlock it.”  
  
Before Arthur can answer, Ariadne and Yusuf pop up and separate them. Ariadne is buzzing with excitement as she deters Arthur, “Hey, look, they’re announcing the King and Queen of Love!”  
  
“What on earth is that?” He mutters, disgusted just at the sound of it.  
  
Ariadne points to a stage at the end of the gym where a faculty member known affectionately as Mr. Asscrack is squinting in the glare of a spotlight. He taps the mic in examination and beams at the loud rustle it emits. “Hello, students! Are we all having a good time?”  
  
The crowd roars in a mix of the affirmative and the negative.  
  
Arthur shuffles, feeling oddly pedestrian but before he can turn and takes Eames’ up on his offer, Eames appears with a hand on his elbow. “Have you spoken to Mal?”  
  
Arthur shrugs, “Not since last Monday, not really.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
On stage, Mr. Asscrack continues, “Can I get a drum roll, please?” the crowd complies, “The King of this year’s Valentine’s Celebration--”  
  
Ariadne squeals with delight when Asscrack calls Eames’ name. Arthur’s eye widen comically and Eames huffs at his side, “Bugger, I didn’t even run this year.”  
  
The spotlight finds them as laughter bubbles out of Arthur’s throat. It’s a shocked, disbelieving laughter and Eames passes him a full grin, only slightly sarcastic, “I’m glad you find this so amusing.”  
  
Mr. Asscrack booms something else over the mic and it takes him a second to register it but, then, all the humor falls from Arthur’s face. Ariadne and Yusuf fall over each other in hysterics. In another second of disbelief, Arthur grasps the lapels of Eames’ jacket, fingers digging in and speaking his threat for him. And he knows what just happened, he’s not a fucking moron, but he’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth, “Eames. Why did he just call my name.”  
  
Eames’ grin turns mischievous, but he glances between the stage and Arthur like he’s trying to comprehend the development too. The crowd is cheering and wolf whistling deafeningly, but Arthur can still hear him crystal fucking clear. “I do believe you’ve been named the Queen of Love. Isn’t that lovely?”  
  
“Well! This school is nothing if not open-minded! As long as nobody sues!” he laughs at his own joke, no one is listening, “You two kids come up here and collect your crowns!”  
  
The spotlight has found them and with a wink, Eames grabs Arthur’s hand, unlatches it from his lapel and pushes them through the crowd. They part for them and Arthur is too shocked to even be pissed or excited. Just, the fucking audacity. On the stage, Eames pushes the glittering tiara into Arthur’s gelled hair.  
  
Arthur nearly splits his lip, holding down the string of swear words that are threatening to come up. He passes Mr. Asscrack a forced smile before they are shuffled offstage. The crowd dies down but there are already people approaching to clap Eames on the shoulder. (Apparently, he wins every year.)  
  
As soon as he’s within reach of her, Ariadne jumps on Arthur, hugging him and laughing in delightful ways that make the shock in his throat uncoil.  
  
“--was harmless. Jeez, Eames, how did you do it?”  
  
Arthur turns to him now with something like amusement and incredulous curiosity, “What the fuck did you even--?”  
  
Eames raises an eyebrow in rebuttal, like _You really didn’t catch that?_ , and it all slides into place. Arthur almost slaps his forehead with his palm before he catches himself, he should have seen it. Then he’s laughing, because he’s got to hand it to Eames, this was unprecedented. Ariadne glances between them, “I don’t get it.”  
  
“He bribed Mal into switching the ballots.”  
  
Cobb wouldn’t carry big bills without having an alternative. He doesn’t like getting caught unprepared. And Mal wouldn’t approach him herself, for fear of wrecking the whole thing. Any other time, Arthur might be furious for not putting these together, but this was harmless. He exchanges a look with Eames and laughs again.  
  
Yusuf claps a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, “You have to admit, Arthur, you do look dashing in a tiara.”  
  
Arthur’s shoulders shake with laughter and he takes Yusuf’s cup that smells suspiciously like vodka. Without wondering how many punches Eames spiked, he polished off the drink and feels light reaching out of his mouth from his feet, something aching to fall out. Arthur doesn’t think this is the vodka--maybe the tequila--but something else. When he turns back to Eames’ there’s a sloppy grin spilling his slurs. “So, about the cabin.”  
  
-  
  
By the time they reach the open night air, Arthur is convinced he doesn’t even care about the cabin anymore. At least twenty people have cockblocked him in the last forty-five minutes, trying to congratulate him on becoming the Queen of Love, and really, Eames, was that necessary? (Right of passage, Arthur.) There’s more vodka guzzling in his veins than he remembers drinking and he’s not going to make it to the fucking cabin. It’s on the opposite side of the fucking campus and Arthur doesn’t want to wait, anymore, fuck that. They’re better off just heading back to Arthur’s room and trading messy spit-slick blowjobs before he passes out.  
  
Arthur leads Eames through his dorm at a pretty obvious pace, and fires off a text to Yusuf when he can be bothered. (Getting laid. Stay gone.) (Cheers, mate.)  
  
Arthur only gives Eames enough time to shut the door behind them before he pushes him against the frame. He curls his fingers into Eames’ hair and draws him in for a messy kiss. Arthur licks his way into Eames’ mouth reaching a second hand to pull the tails of his shirt out. He can only hear the dim patter when their crowns hit the floor, forgotten. The kiss darkens into desperate sucks, and before Arthur can realize it, he’s canting his hips against Eames.  
  
His knees are pushed between Eames’ as he rubs himself against his hip. Eames is breathing in hitched gasps, suddenly. Arthur’s too hard to think straight and the world is spinning, or rocking back and forth like hips, hot with the pressure of anticipation. He blazes a wet trail of open mouthed kisses on Eames’ collarbone, sucking obscenely and pressing him into the door. Every roll of his body is sending a pulsing heat into his belly and Arthur is going insane because of it. There is tequila burning in his throat and his mouth but he wants it to be Eames. Burning through his skin and his body. He needs to come, right fucking now, touch his body and his cock to Eames’, he needs to feel skin and sweat and come. “God, Eames, suck me off, already. Your fucking mouth--”  
  
Then there’s a pressure on his body, the heat of Eames’ hands on his body and he moans, he’s thinking of Eames’ hands everywhere--scratching and rubbing and jacking him--but the pressure become insistent and then Arthur is across the room and --is gone and the door is slamming.  
  
The heat is suddenly cool and sending shocks up and down his body, goose-flesh rising all over his skin. Arthur is winded and dizzy and he sits on the bed to steady himself and he’s only minimized his breathing to fast gasps before he’s speed dialing on his phone. Eames answers after it rings too many times or not enough times, Arthur’s head is swimming. “Eames,” he pants.  
  
Eames grunts between his quick breathing. Arthur hears him swallow dry saliva and Arthur has to stop himself at the thought of Eames’ mouth--on him, in his mouth, wet tongue brushing--but it’s particularly distracting. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, “Come back.”  
  
There’s the rustle of wind whipping into the receiver. Eames make a low sound of contemplation. Arthur wonders how far Eames has gotten and how much time has passed with him trying to clear his head. Finally, Eames agrees, “Alright.”  
  
Arthur tosses the phone away from him and toes off his shoes. Everything is starting to slow down and Arthur pulls off his tie and his dress shirt, leaving the undershirt. He lies back on the bed and touches the cold sheets with his fingertips. The goose flesh on his arms is settling when the door opens and Eames shuts it softly behind him. Eames takes one look at Arthur in his undershirt and fitted slacks and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.  
  
Arthur looks up through his eyelashes at him and has to suppress a shiver. Eames is a mess, lips swollen and red, shirt tails everywhere, and a sexy little bruise has formed on his collar bone. The one from yesterday pales in comparison, this one is private and can be hidden but Eames is baring it for him right now and Arthur wants to suck it more, make it darker and dirtier.  
  
He forces all those thoughts away and scoots over, patting the bed space beside him. “Why did you leave?”  
  
Eames sits on the bed, his back to Arthur, silently chewing his lip and Arthur wonders what he needs to be so built for, the slope of his thick shoulders slouched forward. Eames lays back after a minute, wrapping himself around and in between Arthur and noses his cheek, placing chaste kisses wherever his mouth can reach. Yet, his touch is hesitant. Arthur inhales deeply and Eames doesn’t smell like tequila or vodka. He though they were drunk together.  
  
Arthur opens his eyes to find Eames watching him with an alarmingly curious gaze. “How come you only get randy like that when you’re pissed?”  
  
Arthur’s eyes cross and he looks past Eames to steady them. It doesn’t even occur to him to lie. “You're hot, Eames, but I don't know you. It's the only time I don't care.”  
  
Eames looks startled for a split second and then it softens. Arthur can feel something heavy in his throat but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to distinguish it from the alcohol. Not with Eames looking at him so closely. Too closely. Arthur rolls onto his back and lets everything fade to black.  
  
-  
  
Eames watches the steady rise and fall of Arthur’s chest for a few minutes and then unwraps himself. Eames prides himself on being honest, especially when it comes to people like Arthur. But there’s something disturbing about the calm dissociative voice he used and Eames can’t stand being there anymore. Eames grabs his crown from the floor and sets it on the bed next to Arthur.  
  
When Arthur wakes up in the next morning, he turns and through his pounding headache, finds a handful of Poker chips and the King’s crown next to a scrap of paper. It reads:  
  
 _I'm all in._  
  
Arthur's own crown is gone, Eames must have taken it. He doesn't think about what that means.  
  
-  
  
Cobb doesn’t show his mug until sometime after six in the evening. His tie is loose around his neck and there is a blissed out haze in his eyes. He struts right in--even though Arthur knows he locked the door--and throws himself around the room. Then he hugs Arthur like he used to when they were kids, all loose and clingy with affection. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”  
  
Cobb smiles, toeing off his shoes and laying back. “I didn’t either. But Nash can’t work until the day after tomorrow and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to stay another day. I would’ve stayed at Mal’s, but I think I need a break from her. I am exhausted. We were all over the city up until a few hours ago, then we were just lounging for a bit and then I decided I’d better get some sleep before I crashed. I am sprinting to keep up with her, man.” Cobb smiles, utterly besotted, “Why are the beautiful ones always crazy?”  
  
Arthur snorts, thumbing through his Calculus book, “You know how to pick ‘em.”  
  
Cobb pillows his head with his hands. “Fuck off. How was your date with Eames? Is he still as creepy as he looks? Bordering on pervert?”  
  
Arthur shoots him a warning glare but still offers, “He had me named the Queen of Love at the dance last night.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, Mal told me about that,” Cobb doubles over with laughter. “I almost warned you but I figured it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle. He does like you, though. Mal says she’s never seen him as happy as he looks when he’s with you, which, y’know, I think that’s good enough for me.”  
  
“Whoa,” Arthur is genuinely shocked.  
  
“I know.” Cobb smiles that crooked, rare smile but it gets swallowed into a yawn. “I know, man.”  
  
He falls asleep in his clothes and Arthur crawls in after him later on. Dom is the big spoon this time, heaving his weight on Arthur, unapologetic as ever, and whispering about gardenias in his sleep. It makes Arthur sick to his stomach how much he misses being home.  
  
In the morning, Arthur sees Cobb out. There are dark circles under his eyes, but when he kisses Mal goodbye, his entire face lights up. They watch the car drive away for a minute and Mal wraps her arms around herself and leans against Arthur. She murmurs something in French and he understands what she’s said, but she repeats it in English anyway, like she’d forgotten her tongue for a second. “Does he ever overstay his welcome?”  
  
Arthur looks at the floor, scuffing pavement uncomfortably. “No.”  
  
“I didn’t think so.” She presses a ghost of a kiss to his cheek and walks away, sweater flapping in the wind around her waist.  
  
Arthur watches her walk and feels a sudden kinship to Mal. The slope of her shoulders disappears past the horizon of trees in the forest and Arthur finally feels the cold when she’s gone. He heads upstairs in silent ministrations. In his room, there’s a black bag hanging behind the door. When he opens it, there’s a DKNY suit inside and note attached to the lapel.  
  
 _Joyeux anniversaire Arthur._  
  
Arthur’s birthday isn’t for seven months and Cobb really needs to learn how to just say “Thank you.” But when Arthur tries the suit on, he decides to forgive Cobb’s incorrigible materialism.  
  
-  
  
That Monday, Arthur passes through his routine with a glee that is becoming increasingly difficult to suppress. He goes to YEA and chats with Mal about her dates with Cobb in the near future. He has a long discussion with Ariadne about any stones they have yet to turn in regards to their research. First period is bearable and Arthur isn’t sure why--granted, he doesn’t really want to know--but Fischer keeps his mouth shut throughout most of the periods they have together. His stitches look fresh, like they were busted. Arthur doesn’t ask what Cobb does when he’s off alone for a reason.  
  
At lunch, on Wednesday, he stalks behind the school and finds Eames. They split some apple juice and cigarettes and graham crackers. Eames drinks the apple juice every thirty seconds until Arthur brings out a second bottle and tells him to relax, it’s only juice, not fucking Pinot or something. He’s thumbing the new bottle’s cap when his phone rings.  
  
“Hello?” Eames answers, “Ah, good morning, sir... I am well, thank you, how are you?... Is something the matter?... Oh, that’s not too difficult... Yes, of course, I’ll take care of that, personally... No worries at all... Yes, I’ll be attending, as per usual... See you Saturday, then. ‘Course, goodbye.”  
  
He hangs up and Arthur raises a half-interested eyebrow. Eames shakes his head but starts explaining anyway, “It’s nothing, just--I have a dinner I have to attend, well, more of a conference but a not. It’s all very posh. Saito likes to play the Yakuza image too much. If you’re not busy next Saturday, you don’t have to, but I’d like you to accompany me.”  
  
“Will there be dancing?” Arthur asks between the cigarette dangling at his mouth.  
  
Eames shoots a self-deprecating grin at him, “Probably. I usually take Mal, so you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. It’s rather dry, really. Although--”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur cuts off with a fond smile, thoroughly charmed, “Shut up. I’ll go.”  
  
Eames’ smile turns up a notch. “I’ll be round to pick you up at seven.”  
  
The bell rings and Eames kisses Arthur full and slow before he backs off, breathing quick. Arthur smiles and heads off, tossing his cigarette out. He’s not sure what’s gotten into Eames since Saturday night--his kisses are slower, he speaks with careful precision, moves with a new found self-awareness, and when he looks at him, Arthur feels a phantom tingle of nerves down his neck--but he’s starting to think it’s too adorable for his own good.  
  
-  
  
Arthur isn’t really worried about the dinner--having just gotten a haircut and a new DKNY suit--but on Friday night, after a week of having being relatively stoic, Eames drunk dials him at four in the morning. They have a sloppy fight over the merits of REM sleep and then Arthur yawns and turns over. He falls asleep on the phone and doesn’t dream. When he wakes up, he plugs his phone in to charge and sifts through his alerts. He finds a new text message that Eames sent at 5:03 a.m.  
  
 _im starting to think ur the one thats irrecavable_  
  
Arthur wishes people would stop leaving him notes while he’s asleep.  
  
-  
  
“Y’know,” Arthur starts when he answers the door Saturday night, “drunk texting is not one of your strong suits. You ought to try knitting.”  
  
Eames chuckles, “Didn’t embarrass myself too badly, did I?”  
  
Arthur shrugs on his jacket, adjusting the sleeves and smoothing out wrinkles. “You said that I’m ‘irrecavable’, although I’m almost positive you meant ‘irrevocable.’”  
  
“Yeah, that was probably it.” Eames nods.  
  
“Why did you tell me that anyways?” Arthur stuffs his phone, wallet, and keys into their appropriate pockets. “The night at the the cabin, I remember you saying that that you were irrevocable. What is that even supposed to mean?”  
  
“It’s, uh,” Eames looks away, smiling fondly, as if in remembrance. “When I was young, my dad, well, he took off. And his brother came over from the continent to care for me. I was too young to tie my own bloody shoelaces. My mum... was not all there, so my uncle came over and he took me in. I always looked up to him as a kid, he was my idol. And when I was growing up I asked him what I had to do to be a man like him. He always said that a man’s actions are what defined him and I had to chose what that meant for me, I had to be my own man.” He looks at Arthur, catching his gaze will full force, “and I chose to do only irrevocable things--to be completely sure of something before I did it, and completely sure I wanted something before I chased it.”  
  
Arthur, stunned to silence, feels a sudden wave of affection for this adorable, albeit slightly disconcerting version of Eames and shuffles forward, grabbing Eames’ jaw and bringing their mouths together. When they pull apart, Eames grins lopsidedly and leads Arthur downstairs.  
  
-  
  
Eames drives to the outer reaches of town, gripping the steering wheel fiercely and driving with more precision than usual. It’s started to worry Arthur a little with  the nerves and careful demeanor. He lets it slide, though, because when they get there, Eames comes around and holds him against the car by the lapels. Arthur was in the middle of being thoroughly impressed by the villa they stopped in front of when Eames slid up to him and kissed Arthur until his head was spinning.  
  
They part and Eames is gone in an instant, chatting amicably with someone who approaches him. Arthur clears his throat and hands the car keys Eames left in his hand to the valet. The valet looks stunned for a minute before excusing himself. Arthur straightens his jacket and joins Eames. He introduces Arthur as his partner to these strangers and then leads him into the villa, one hand pressing into the small of his back. Eames only grins when Arthur mentions that everyone is staring at him.  
  
The room he’s lead to is like a grand ballroom with high curtains curled over larges, frosted windows. Chandeliers hang from several points in the ceiling, lighting up the granite of the room quite nicely. There are people everywhere, dancing in expensive suits and Italian loafers. At the end of the room, though, stands a single man, talking casually. There are people surrounding him, talking and leaning in to listen to his words, like he is a leader. Everyone stands slouched around him. Or perhaps he stands taller than them.  
  
“Isn’t that the guy that bought us champagne? Mr. Saito?”  
  
Eames glances at Arthur as they stride towards Saito, Eames’ arm looped casually through Arthur’s. When they approach, the people part for Eames and fall silent. Mr. Saito opens his arms and Eames leaves Arthur to embrace him in effortless grace, like a practiced dance. They share silent grins and then talk in rapid fire Japanese, which Arthur knows almost none of, but catches his name in the conversation.  
  
Finally, Saito turns to greet him, “Ah, the infamous Arthur. Good evening, young man.”  
  
“Not too infamous, I hope,” Arthur laughs, nervously. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”  
  
“Please, just Saito will be fine,” he smiles politely, “Would you care to join a few of us for a private dinner?”  
  
Arthur smiles, graciously accepting. Saito gathers a few people and they are led out of the main room and towards a quieter section of the estate. In some mahogany hallway, Eames bumps his shoulder and says, “He likes you. He’s only ever invited Mal into his private company before. As far as my dates go.”  
  
Looping their arms again, Arthur hushes his voice for Eames only, “Why do you care if your boss likes me?”  
  
Eames grins sheepishly, but shrugs, “I like bragging. You’re something to brag about.”  
  
Arthur snorts and sits next to Eames at the table, holding his hand on Eames’ leg, just above his knee, for the hell of it.  
  
There is only a handful of people at the table, all immaculately dressed. Saito sits at the head of the table, with a young couple at his left and Eames sitting on his right. At the end of the table sits another young man, alone. Arthur watches curiously as the four of them converse in smooth Japanese, the woman sitting across from him speaking up occasionally. Arthur doesn’t know Japanese and he imagines a man like Saito would expect as much, so Arthur doesn’t let it get to him. He’s not particularly interested in Eames’ business anyway. Money is money and bills are bills.  
  
Instead, he busies himself with eating while they talk, experimenting with the Japanese courses laid out before him. It’s an interesting meal, at the very least. When the conversation dwindles, it returns to English and the woman before him addresses him, “You are Arthur, yes?”  
  
Arthur wipes his mouth with a napkin before speaking, “Yes, I am. I didn’t catch your name, sorry.”  
  
Her eyes shimmer with mischief, her grin turning up into something Arthur has seen countless times before, only on Eames. He wonders, distantly, if they are related. She ignores his question and says, “You are very handsome.”  
  
“Hisako,” Saito warns sharply.  
  
Her gaze drops back to the food before her, with a poorly hidden smile. The two other men jostle their food uninterestedly. Eames tenses underneath his hand but relaxes when Saito picks up the conversation between the awkward pause. “Arthur is Eames’ new boyfriend.”  
  
The young man at the end of the table speaks up this time, in a hushed, feral accented whisper, like claws ripping through paper, “Is that so?”  
  
 _Come the fuck on, man._  
  
Very pointedly, Arthur answers. “I do believe it is.”  
  
At this point, there’s no one to kid with anymore. Eames and Arthur have spent every weekday in lunch together, every Saturday, they’ve made out a handful of times, gone on three official dates and were declared the King and Queen of Love. Besides, they hold hands more times than Arthur remembers strictly refusing.   
  
Saito nods, then continues, “What do you plan on doing after high school?”  
  
Arthur answers without hesitation. His father wanted him to join the military before he got PTSD and Arthur never fully opposed the idea. The military has always felt like the right direction. There was ROTC at his last school and the recruiter always spoke with the careful ease of knowing she’d hooked him. Which, he didn’t mind as long as she kept letting him feel her breasts under the bleachers, after school. But people like hearing he’ll be a war hero because of his father, not because of the last conversation he had with Cobb before coming to the Academy ( _What do you know about dreams, Arthur?_ ), not because of Dreamshare. And Arthur’s always been good about rolling with the punches.  
  
“I am joining the Marines after graduation, and then using the money for college. I plan on becoming a psychologist, focusing on clinical psychology and the treatment of war veterans.”  
  
Eames chews his food very quietly as Saito murmurs in approval. “Are you sure of such decision? The American government tends to be a tad trigger happy when it comes to stationing soldiers in other countries.”  
  
Arthur forces down a grin, taking the comment in stride. “Yes, the military has always presented the right opportunities for me, regardless of their trigger fingers. And after watching my own father suffer from PTSD, I have always vowed to help where I can.”  
  
“I see,” Saito looks unimpressed, “You are following your father’s dreams, then?’  
  
“No, not at all.” Eames tenses under his hand again, so Arthur folds his hands on the table. “My father was a medic then a doctor. I think I am taking inspiration from his example and curving it to my own interests and potential."  
  
“You sound confident of your decisions,” Saito is watching him with a glint in his eyes like he’s found Arthur’s flaw.  
  
“I am as confident as anyone can be about the future. To assume that my plan would shape up perfectly is naive, but I am confident that is the direction I want my life to head in.”  
  
Saito watches him for a moment, using the excuse of eating before speaking again. “Your graduation is in less than four months. What do you plan to do of your relationship with my nephew in such a short time span, when you plan on joining the military?”  
  
Before Arthur can open his mouth to lay out a smooth reply, Eames cuts him off, and Arthur realizes what he just skipped over. Eames talks in a hurried tone, “That is hardly a fair question, Uncle. We have not been together long enough to set up long term ideas for the future. You know that, so come off it.”  
  
Saito brings his hands up in playful defensiveness--he seems to have a soft spot for Eames--but drops them and returns his face back into a stoic mask. An attendant approaches him and whispers in his ear, nobody takes notice. Arthur watches his hands flex at his knees, suddenly hit with an overpowering dread. This time, Eames reaches out to take his hand but doesn’t fight back when Arthur pulls away.  
  
-  
  
The car ride home is tense and silent, with the radio on the oldies station. They’re playing really shit songs from the eighties, but Eames is focused on driving and Arthur can’t hear the music over the sound of his thoughts. They pull up to the school and Eames parks outside of Smithe Hall, where his room is. The dorms are dark and Eames picks his way in. No alarms ring, but even if they did, Arthur knows Eames would take care of it.  
  
Unsurprisingly, Eames has a single. They get to his room and Arthur can’t find himself to care about the elaborate bed sheets or the canvas covered walls. It has the same basic layout of his room: bed, closet, bathroom, and dresser and space enough for two teenage boys to move around. Eames closes the door behind them and swings the closet door open.  
  
He tosses his jacket on a hangar, haphazardly and then pulls both of his shirts off in one motion, not bothering to unbutton the dress shirt. Arthur watches him rummage through the dresser, with a twist of forced humor on his lips, “Do you want to borrow some clothes, Arthur? I’ll be happy to lend them to you, though you may sleep in the nude if you so wish.”  
  
Arthur pulls off his jacket in the silence, tossing it over the dresser before he announces, “You should have told me.”   
  
“It’s not that serious.” Eames sets the shirts down on the dresser but doesn’t look up at him.  
  
“Eames, a few hours ago you told me that he was your idol. You told me he taught you how to be a man. You said he was your mentor and that he cared for you like his own son. That’s a pretty big fucking deal.”  
  
“Arthur--” Eames turns to face him.  
  
“What if I had snapped at him? He was cutting it pretty close at dinner. What if I had snapped, huh?”  
  
“I didn’t think you would do that.  
  
“Why the hell not? Don’t you think anything through?”  
  
Eames winces, “You’re exceedingly clever, Arthur. I sincerely doubt you would ever be daft enough to disrespect a Yakuza. I figured you would hold any sarcasm for me, later. Most probably about the Japanese, which I realize I should have told you I speak, but that’s beside the point. ”  
  
“What if I did something inappropriate?”  
  
“You don’t have an inappropriate bone in your body,” Eames scoffs. He turns back to the dresser and continues, picking out pajamas and setting them aside. He closes the dresser and turns back to Arthur. He opens to his mouth to speak but then stops, “But I should have told you.”  
  
Arthur’s shoulders slump forward and he sighs quietly, “So why didn’t you?”  
  
“I didn’t know how you would react to you inviting you to meet my uncle.” Eames crosses his legs at the ankle, nervous.  
  
“Probably better than this.” Arthur rationalizes.  
  
“I know,” Eames frowns. “But, I mean, I told you already. I’m all in.”  
  
Arthur stops his next accusing sentence and watches Eames nervously shifting his weight for a moment. There’s a harsh cut in his brow, like he can’t stand being here and the silence is making Arthur’s stomach heavy. “Did you think I wasn’t?”  
  
“You said the only reason you want me when you’re drunk is because it’s when you don’t care.”  
  
Arthur racks his brain, trying to follow a single train of thought with Eames so raw and open in front of him and this ill ache worming into his hands. “Did you think I was in my right mind when I said that?”  
  
“I can’t presume to know what your right mind is,” Eames looks down at his hands, knuckles white.  
  
“Eames. God, fuck this,” Arthur shuffles, reaching into his pocket. Eames looks up at him and Arthur removes his hand, curled around a familiar red cube. He shows it to Eames, it’s been in his pocket all afternoon and with a flick of his wrist, throws the die on the floor, in the space between them. “Five.” Arthur announces before the die even stops rolling.  
  
Eames’ brow furrows, “It’s a loaded die, Arthur. I cheated you that time.”  
  
Arthur curls a finger around the knot of his tie and pulls it loose. He undoes a few buttons, bearing his throat. “I know. I’m trying to tell you, Eames, that’s the point. You don’t have to.”  
  
He undoes the buttons of his shirt then tugs out the tails. It hangs open around him and against his pale skin, chest flushing with a new found self-consciousness. He toes off his shoes and socks and is reaching for his belt before Eames--because he finally got the fucking memo--closes the spaces between them. He grabs at Arthur’s skin, clenching his fingers around the spaces between his ribs to pull them together. Arthur almost doesn’t expect it when Eames kisses him, trembling at first, slow. A beat skips and then Arthur tugs on the hair of Eames’ neck, pursing his lips to kiss back.  
  
-  
  
They fall asleep, too tired to do anything else but lay together and converse about their respective families. Arthur is an only child with an absent father and an overbearing mother, and Cobb. Cobb’s mom is awesome and loves Arthur and always brings him lemonade, even if she’s known Arthur for thirteen years. Cobb’s dad is really into extreme sports, like mountain biking and rock climbing but on weekdays, he sells life insurance. Teresa is the youngest member of the Cobb household, and coincidentally the most demanding. Arthur and Cobb has spent a small fortune spoiling her to no end.  
  
Eames’ only has vague memories of his dad, and he visits his mum whenever he can. They moved to the States for no good reason but to start fresh, Eames supposes. He does whatever Saito asks of him. Saito has kept a roof over his head for years and he is eternally indebted. Hisako is his cousin and she was just messing about with Arthur. The others at the table where faceless associates, they won’t be there the next time they dine.  
  
It almost doesn’t happen. But, God, Arthur wanted it to happen. He wakes up sometime past four and Eames’ chest is pressed hot against his back, breathing slowly and steadily. Arthur’s got a hard-on and Eames’ breath is tickling the nape of his neck. He thinks about it, though. About whether or not he wants to do this, to be with Eames like this. It’s only been a couple of minutes of contemplation when Eames’ fingers flex subconsciously, around his belly button and Arthur does want it.  
  
He turns around and pulls his shirt over his head. Eames gave him a tee shirt and pajama bottoms to wear but chose to sleep shirtless. There’s a moment where he considers how to wake Eames up but it passes when Eames’ eyes flutter open. He smiles sleepily at Arthur. “Morning already?”  
  
Arthur brings his hands up to run along Eames’ back and shoulder blades, awarded with a small sigh of contentment. “No, but I think you should wake up.”  
  
“What for?” Eames murmurs.  
  
Instead of replying, Arthur aligns their hips and yes, Eames is hard against him, too. Arthur can feel the heat and he rolls his hips experimentally. Eames’ hand, around his waist, tenses into a fist and Eames gives a choked gasp of breath. His eyes shoot open and then Arthur kisses him, dirty and slow. They haven’t been asleep long enough to have morning breath so Arthur tastes only the mint toothpaste. He strokes Eames’ tongue against his own. He feels Eames’ arm rush up his back all rough and calloused fingers.  
  
There’s a spark of heat in Arthur’s belly as Eames pulls him closer. Their lips smack as they break apart to breathe and Arthur rocks his hips again. Eames moans into his open mouth, and Arthur loves that gruff noise, cutting through his chest. He takes Arthur’s mouth again, palming the flushed skin of Arthur’s chest. He stops when he reaches the bottom of Arthur’s bellybutton, where the line of hair disappears into his boxers. Eames isn’t sure where Arthur's pants have gone--not that he’s complaining--but this thin layer of cotton suddenly isn’t enough of a barrier. There is something crawling up his body, like need. “Arthur.”  
  
Arthur pulls back to look at Eames through the shards of light coming in through the blinds. His eyes are dark and wide like he’s been searching for something and now he doesn’t want to miss it. Whatever it is, a beat passes between them and then Eames closes the distance, breathing quietly though his nose, like relief.  
  
Arthur’s fingers curl into his shoulder, scratching lightly and Eames’ palm finds itself sliding into his briefs. He rests on Arthur’s hip then decides better of it and slides his boxers down the curve of his thighs, touching every piece of skin he finds. They slink off his feet and pool at the floor with a silent whoosh. Eames’ clothes follow quickly and then Arthur can feel the bare press of his muscled thighs. They twitch lightly and it sends a tremor through Arthur’s body.  
  
He guides Eames over him and kisses him again, mouth opening in invitation. Eames looms over him with wide eyes, fluttering closed at the feel of their bare cocks against each other. Arthur lets his legs fall open to gives Eames space and kisses his lips, flicking tongue over the ridges of his teeth.  
  
Eames brackets Arthur’s head with his forearms, pushing his bare chest against Arthur’s, arching for friction. Arthur can hardly feel his weight, it’s so hesitant. But Eames’ chest rushes against his and the pressure there is making him wild. Arthur runs his fingertips down the ripple of muscle over Eames’ back and down the curve. He pulls Eames closer by the small of his back, keeping one hand there to guide him and wraps another around both of their cocks.  
  
Eames shudders against him, groaning thickly into the curve of Arthur’s neck. Arthur stretches and flexes his palm around the head, pumping the two of them tighter together. Eames’ groans are harsh and deep, the sounds of buildings as they crumble. Arthur slides his other hand to hold Eames’ steady as he thumbs the slits, spreading precome.  
  
The slide turns wet and loud, Eames making these rough noises in Arthur’s ear, panting for more. He moves to Arthur’s neck, sucking and licking and leaving all kinds of marks all over his collarbone. Arthur bites his lip, breathing in huffs, stroking them faster, from head to base. He’s not going to last much longer, not with Eames biting down his neck, with that beautiful mouth, open wide and wanton. Arthur never used to be a biter.  
  
Arthur brings the hand at his hip to feel the muscle at Eames’ stomach, clenching and rippling as Eames ruts and thrusts into his hand. He ducks his head further to lick at Arthur’s nipples with broad strokes of his tongue. Arthur jacks faster, whining and aching for it. Sweat and saliva slick his chest, Eames is sucking on his nipples greedily, and they stand erect for his mouth. Eames’ biceps are trembling and he pulls off to pant his name, “Arthur, Arthur, Christ, Yes.”  
  
Arthur braces his feet against the mattress, lifting his hips and holding tighter and jacking frantically. Arthur comes with a quiet gasp from the bottom of his throat, vision white and body shaking out his release against Eames. Arthur doesn’t hear it when Eames comes, he feels the rush of wet heat and the twitch of muscles against his own, thighs tense. Arthur strokes them through the aftershocks, breathing in long pants.  
  
Eames picks his head up and kisses Arthur, taking away any illusion of composure Arthur was trying to gather. Their teeth clack lightly and Arthur stops his hand, letting it drop slack against his hip. Eames breaks the kiss, breathing heavy against his lips, foreheads stacked.  Arthur kisses Eames with his eyelashes as they flutter close, lips brushing over each other when he talks, “Let’s go to sleep.”  
  
Eames mutters something about hygiene and gets up, returning with a towel. He cleans himself up and Arthur watches, boneless, as he cleans him up, too. Arthur turns to face the wall, pulling the comforter back up over his stomach and Eames curls up behind him.  
  
He kisses the back of his neck, damp with sweat, until his breathing evens out. Arthur blinks, listening to the own roar of his heart, and falls asleep.  
  
-  
  
Arthur wakes with the dig of blunt teeth, gnawing softly into his shoulder. He breathes deeply and looks over his shoulder to find Eames, grinning coyly. The room smells delightfully like citrus and coffee, like Eames has been up for a while, but he’s nude under the blanket. Arthur turns over and the sheets fall low on his hips. Eames presses his thigh between Arthur’s knees, spreading his legs. “Where are my pants?” Arthur muses absently.  
  
“I sold them. And all your clothes.”  
  
Arthur snorts, “What do you propose I do now?”  
  
“I was hoping you would become a nudist,” Eames smiles.  
  
“Oh, you’re right. I’ll start now. Do you get the paper?”  
  
He moves to stand up and Eames’ arm reaches over and pushes him back down. “Nevermind, forgive it, I will buy back your clothes.”  
  
Arthur laughs and it tumbles down his chest, swallowed by Eames’ kiss. Arthur sighs against his mouth, happy. “Let’s shower.”  
  
Eames wrinkles his nose, “No, let’s have sex again.”  
  
“That’s what I meant. In the shower.”  
  
Eames smiles fondly and it turns lewd, rapidly. “C’mon, then, no time to waste.”  
  
Eames shrugs off the blanket and stands, and Arthur feels all the blood in his body rush to his brain. The sun is coming in orange and gold, just rising through the window and Eames is glowing in it, grey eyes bright and muscled body smooth and endless. Arthur sits up, utterly mesmerized by the spin of color in Eames’ smile, teeth white against his red mouth. He holds Eames in place where he’s standing and runs his hands through the glow, scraping his nails against the muscles. He kisses Eames’ bellybutton, and his hip and then rests his head on his thigh.  
  
He presses ghost kisses here, too. Eames cards his fingers through his hair, “Come on, save it for the shower, love.”  
  
Arthur glances up and sees a mirror of affection, “Go turn on the water, I’ll be there in a minute.”  
  
Eames bends to his knees and kisses Arthur, again, closemouthed and warm. He doesn’t want this to stop but he needs to breathe. They part and Eames looks hesitant but walks off to do as he’s been told.  
  
Arthur takes a minute to right himself and level his heartbeat. There’s dizziness in his chest and it’s scaring him a little. The water runs in the next room and an unstoppable warmth spreads in his body. Eames calls him over and Arthur’s eyes catch a flash of red as he stands up. The dizziness is forgotten as he reaches of the die, jostling it between his fingers. He hears the call of Eames’ voice over the roar of water, a thought strikes him.  
  
An insurmountable thought that gets his heart to hammer in his chest with panic and exhilaration. The sun is warm on his bare back, calm, like mercy, and the water will be cool in the shower, Eames is calling him to it, all he has to do it jump, and if he were to roll the die, right now, it would land on five. He can stand in the sun or the shore and the cliff, with its jagged edges, can’t touch it, and the die will land on five. It will always land on five.


End file.
